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Pass P?U,S 27 
Book »C <5 7 

/6.70 — 



22. 



THE 



GIRLHOOD 




SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES; 



A SERIES OF TALES, 



MARY CO WDM CLARKE, 

AUTHOR Ox THE CONCORDANCE TO SHAKESPEARE. 



" as petty to his ends, 
As is the morn-dew on the myrtle leaf 

To his grand sea." 

Shakespeare 



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NEW YORK: 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SOXS 

Fourth Avenue and Twenty-third Steeet. 

18 73. 



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C51 



y73 



CONTENTS 



ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS, .... .... 3 

KATHARINA AND BIANCA; THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE, 95 

OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSINORE, 187 

ROSALIND AND CELIA ; THE FRIENDS, . 269 

JULIET; THE VfHITE DOVE OF VERONA, . . . . . 355 




TALE VI. 

ISABELLA; THE VOTARESS. 



" A thing ensky'd, and sainted ; " 

Measure for Measure. 



All the Vienna world was abroad, and gay, and well dressed, and bent 
on pleasure ; for it was the first of May, — when every Viennese puts on 
new clothes, and sallies forth, and makes holiday ; and the city becomes 
a scene of colour and animation. 

Through the public thoroughfares, the crowd streamed on ; rich and 
poor, high and low, haughty and humble, gentle and simple, the virtuous 
and the vicious, the nobleman and the tradesman, the lady, the milliner, 
the' man of wealth, the artisan, the honest, the profligate, the wise, the 
foolish, the sober, the dissipated, the careless, the studious, the indolent, 
the industrious, the witty, the silly, the insolent, the modest, the proud, 
the coquette, the house-wife, the flirt, the spendthrift, the miser, the 
home-lover, and the gad-about ; all with one accord, joined the band of 
idlers, and swelled the throng that poured through the streets that fine 
May-morning, in holiday trim, and holiday talk, and holiday mirth and 
laughter, and in the freedom of universal association which holiday pur- 
suit brings about. 

For all the groups in this gay crowd, whatever their class, or degree, 
or habit, or profession, or calling, or ordinary pursuit, had that day but 
one pursuit, and jostled and elbowed each other in temporary equality 



4 ISABELLA J 

and unanimity ; for it was the first of May, and all the Vienna world 
was abroad, and wending to see the foot-racing on the Prater. 

The noble, and the wealthy, for the most part, kept their state, in 
coaches, or on horseback, surveying the crowd on foot with toleration, or 
disdain, as the case might be, or with condescending approval, intimating 
that, as part of the show and stir of the scene, the others were welcome 
there, in their clean new dresses. The humbler pedestrians looked upon 
their lofty neighbours with admiration, or with grudging, or with envy, 
as the case might be, also ; according to the several dispositions of the 
individual gazers in both ranks. 

Among the pedestrians, was one couple, who, as they lounged along, 
were not sparing of their remarks upon the rest, and who uttered them 
in a loud jeering tone, regardless of being heard, or of giving offence. 

The man, — a short, thick-set fellow, with a ferocious moustache, and 
a cruel eye ; a skin that bespoke double daily drink to daily bread ; a 
head held on one side, with an air that cast defiance in the teeth of all 
who cast eyes on him ; a swaggering step, and a general look of brutal 
ruffianism ; — held on his arm a young girl, who was young only in years, 
for her face had in it that which betokened an age of horrible experi- 
ences. There were in her countenance traces of beauty, but they were 
obscured to a pitying eye by the shadow of vice, by the hues of intempe- 
rance, by the lines which wrangling and brawling had left cut in upon 
the cheek, and round the mouth and eyes ; while in the eyes themselves, 
there would occasionally gleam a wild troubled look, that seemed like 
conscience betraying its inward struggle, and starting forth involuntarily 
to claim sympathy and compassion 

In her person there was the same confession ; recklessness of deco- 
rum in dress and bearing, together with a something of shrinking con- 
sciousness at times, that seemed to plead for the sense of shame that yet 
remained. Pier voice revealed similar existence of bad, with latent 
good. It was coarse and unrestrained in its noisy vulgarity of speech 
and laugh ; but there were moments when its tone would drop to an 
almost musical softness, and it would tremble and vibrate with genuine 
womanly emotion. 



THE VOTARESS. 5 

Now. however, it was raised to its height of repulsive loudness, as 
she laughed and talked with the ruffian companion on whose arm she 
hung, humouring his mood of jocularity in sneering at the passers-by, 
and assisting his invention by many smart sallies of her own. 

In the midst of their boisterous mirth, it suddenly received a cheek, 
by one of the horses starting from the line of cavalcade, and plunging 
and rearing violently in their immediate vicinity. So close to them 
came the animal, and so entirely beyond the controul of his rider was he 
in his bounds and curvet-tings, that his hoof struck the girl, before she 
could get out of his way. She recoiled with a scream of pain ; while 
her companion sprang forward, with an oath, to seize the horse's rein, 
and to revenge himself on the rider. But the animal dashed past him, 
and bore his master and himself away from the spot, leaving the other 
raging and foaming, and pouring forth a volley of curses and vows for 
vengeance. 

' : Don't heed it ; I'm not much hurt : you'll only get yourself into 
trouble — let him be :" said the girl with difficulty : for she was struggling 
to hide the pain she was in. 

' ; Not much hurt !" with another oath : ; - you might have been 
killed ! " 

The girl turned deadly pale, and held her hand to her bo«om : but 
she continued to say she was not much hurt, and kept her other hand 
upon the man's sleeve to hold him back. 

' ; No, no. not badly hurt:" she said : " only let me lean upon you for a 
bit. and take me out of the crowd for a minute or two. and I shall be 
right enough soon." 

The man led her up a. quiet by-street : while she clung to him. as 
much, apparently, to detain him by her side, as to use his arm for 
support. 

"Here, sit you down here. Nanni, my girl." said he. as he turned 
through the gates of a little old church-yard, that was in the by-street ; 
" sit upon one of these mounds, and get your breath, which that 
scoundrel frightened out of you with his horse's hoofs. I'll see if one 
arm can't strike as well as four legs, if ever I catch that young jack- 
anapes ! " 



ISABELLA I 



"Not here ! " said the girl shuddering, and looking round. u I can't 
sit here. You said just now, I might have been killed ; so I might — in 
that very moment — and have been brought and laid here." She looked 
round upon the graves ; she looked up at the old church tower that reared 
its grey head towards the sky ; she looked up into that sky beyond, and a 
dark troubled expression settled on her brow. She thought, had she then 
been summoned to one of those earthly beds, what strange rest or unrest 
might have been hers. 

" Why what a plague's come to the wench ! " exclaimed the man, as 
he watched her disturbed look, and quivering lip, " you're no coward, 
are you, Nan, to shiver and shake after the danger's over ? I know 
you're too brave a wench for that, or I shouldn't like ye as well as I do ! 
Ugo Branz hates a milk-sop, be it man or woman, with all his body and 
soul !'' 

Winding up this manifesto with a few more round oaths, having for 
aim milk-sops of all kinds, horses and horsemen of all sorts, mankind in 
general, and himself and his own body and soul in particular, he again 
demanded to know what a plague was come to the wench. 

" I don't know — nothing: — nothing's come to me — nothing's the 
matter with me ; I'm better now ;" said the girl hurriedly. " But what's 
that — over there — sitting among the graves — all in white ? see !" 

" I suppose you think it's a ghost ! What the devil's come over 
you ? " And this time Ugo Branz invoked condemnation on his eyes 
and limbs, as well as body and soul. 

" A ghost ? No ; more like an angel ! " said she. " It's a child. 
See how it sits, like a marble image ; with its folded hands and drooping 
head." 

'• I'll tell you what, my girl," said the man, " if you're.going to stay 
here all day in this mouldy old church-yard, fancying ghosts, and spirits, 
and angels, and all that sort of rubbish, you may stay here by yourself; 
for I shan't, I promise you. But if you choose to come along with me, 
and see the foot-running, like the jolly wench I know you for, generally, 
why, say the word, and come along, and don't stand moping and fooling 
here no longer." 



THE VOTARESS. 7 

" I am a fool : what's the good of moping and thinking?" muttered 
the girl. "I often tell myself so — no use in thinking— be merry while 
I can — merry! And so we'll be merry, shall we, Ugo?" she went on in 
her loud, careless voice, and with her noisy laugh ; but both the tone 
and the laugh were forced and mirthless. 

Her companion, however, was not one to detect want of true feeling 
of any sort, or any where; as long as the semblance of high spirits was 
near him, he was satisfied ; and they soon joined the crowd in the main 
street again, and went lounging, and idling, and mocking, and jesting 
on, as they had done before. 

They reached the Prater, as the foot-race began. The competitors 
had just started ; and Ugo was soon eagerly engaged in watcl ing them, 
and in betting with some of the bystanders, on the probable event of the 
course. The chances were very equal, the men engaged being well 
matched in strength and activity. They were, for the most part, run- 
ning-footmen, belonging to the retinue of noblemen of distinction ; and 
were dressed in coloured silk jackets, embroidered in silver. The vivid 
hues, and richness of their decoration, showed to peculiar advantage in 
rapid action ; which, joined to their well-matched powers, gave additional 
brilliancy, animation, and interest to the sports. Ugo became more and 
more excited by the scene ; his bets grew more numerous ; his shouts to 
those he abetted, more vehement ; his yells to those he disfavoured, more 
execrative; his oaths more savage, more voluble than ever. As the race 
concluded, he found himself a victor, by several heavy wagers, and in a 
state of foaming furious triumph. 

In high good humour, still raving and panting, he seized the girl by 
the arm, and led her to one of the small way-side houses of entertainment 
that abound near there; taking his seat on one of the benches at a table 
set outside, for the accommodation of revellers, and calling upon all near 
him to congratulate him upon his winnings. He did not notice that in 
passing his arm through hers, the girl had shrunk abruptly, for she 
strove to repress all evidence of the pain he gave her by touching, even 
thus casually, the spot where she had received the blow from the horse's 
hoof; but afterwards, when Ugo had bawled his orders for beer and 



8 ISABELLA J 

schnapps, and, in a fit of brute joviality, snatched the girl in his arms, 
to give her a sounding kiss, the sudden and rough pressure extorted a 
scream from her lips, which made him fling her from him, and exclaim 
with one of his usual curses: — 

"What makes you squall, when a man's inclined to be jolly? Are 
you turned squeamish, or what? Because if you are, by Jove, you're no 
company for Ugo. There, be off -with that white face of yours ! Pah, 
it turns a man's liquor to milk. Be off with it, I say ! Let's see no 
more of it !" 

The girl made one attempt to lay her hand upon his arm, and to 
utter one of her forced laughs ; but as her voice faltered, and she could 
not drive the look of pain from her lips by a feigned smile, he shook her 
off, and she turned away. 

As she arose from her seat on the bench beside him, one of the by- 
standers said something as if in deprecation of Ugo's treatment of her; 
which this latter resenting, high words arose, mingled with execrations 
and threatened blows. 

Nanni, again forgetful of herself, would have clung to Ugo, to with- 
hold him from danger, but, with a torrent of oaths, he protested that if 
she didn't get out of his sight that instant, he'd fell her to the ground, 
and set his foot on her chalk face. 

The girl crept away, giving a free course to the tears of suffering she 
had till then suppressed ; she occasionally put her hand to her bruised 
side as if it gave her great pain, and more than once raised her other 
hand to her head, as if full of thoughts that disturbed her with even 
greater. 

She took no heed to wipe away the tears which blurred and smeared 
her face, but walked on in dogged misery, heedless of appearance or ob- 
servation ; until at length she was beyond the chance of the latter, for 
she had wandered away from the crowded Prater, and was now in a 
quiet, unfrequented path down by the river. 

The hum of voices, the tread of footsteps, the trample of horses and 
carriages, the various sounds of a gay and eager crowd, gradully grew 
fainter, subsiding in the distance; the stillness of Nature softly replaced 



THE VOTARESS. \) 

them, while the green of the leaves overhead, and of the grass beneath, 
with the mild blue heavens above, spanning the shining track of the 
Danube, helped to shed benign influence upon the agitated senses of the 
sufferer. 

The drops fell less thickly from her eyes ; the swollen lids drooped 
less heavily, as her look encountered the cool tranquillity of the scene ; 
but still in her heart there raged the bitter sense of pain, of ill-usage, and 
the still keener sting of self-abasement and conscious worthlessness. 

She flung herself down on the raised path by the way side, where 
she sat rocking herself to and fro, moodily gazing across the gliding 
waters into the space beyond, as if confronting the picture her fancy pre- 
sented her of the outcast thing she was. 

As she sat thus, a little footstep approached. A child, of but a few 
years old, came in sight, walking along the road by itself, looking about, 
as if somewhat uncertain of its way, yet keeping steadily on without 
stopping. 

Nanni watched the child involuntarily; and as it came near to the 
spot where she sat, she could not help saying : — 

" Why, you're a bit % of a thing to be wandering here by yourself. 
Where are you going to ?" 

" To Heaven," said the little one. 

" Bless the child !" was the startled rejoinder. 
• "I'm trying to find my way there. There must be some way to get 
there ; and I want to go up — up there — to her !" And the child pointed 
up into the blue sky with its baby finger. 

" Where do you come from ?" 

"From the church-yard." 

Nanni again started. The little creature stood there looking so in- 
nocent, so clear, so undarkened by earth's mistakes and guilt, that, for 
an instant, she might have seemed a newly disembodied spirit, freed 
from its coverings of fleshly and church-yard clay, coming forth to seek 
kindred dwelling-place with the angels above. For that instant, Nanni 
eyed the child, as if she would have scarce been surprised to see a pair 
of wings spread themselves from its shoulders, and bear it soaring away 



10 

from her sight: but in another moment she recognized it for the same 
she had beheld that morning sitting upon one of the graves, when she 
was led into the church-yard to recover, by Ugo Branz. 

" Do you know the way to Heaven ?" resumed the child. 

" Not I .;" said Nanni with a would-be light laugh ; but the old 
troubled look came into her face. 

" Did you ever know it?" said the child; " have you forgotten it ?" 

" I might have known it, perhaps, one time" — replied the girl hur- 
riedly ; ; - yes. yes. I have forgotten it, I suppose." 

" I wish I'd met you before you forgot it," said the child earnestly. 

The troubled eye darkened still more, as the girl muttered some- 
thing that sounded like : — " Would to God you had !" 

'• I wish I had ;" repeated the child ; "for I want to get there. They 
told me she was gone there — and I must go to her."* The little one 
looked about her again ; and seemed going to pursue her steady onward 
wayj as before. Suddenly she held out her hand to Nanni, and said: — 
' : Come with me : we'll try and find the way together, shall we?" 

The girl burs', into a passion of crying. " Too late, too late!" she 
exclaimed wildly x and beat her hands togefher, and clenched them 
among her hair. 

The child stood looking in terror at this violence of grief ; but yet 
she found courage, after a pause, to go a little nearer, and repeat, "'Do, 
come and help me to look for it; if we find the way, you won't cry any 
more: for they told me nobody's sorry there. Come, we shall be so 
happy there. Let's go. Do ; do. 

And the little one, in her eagerness to cure misery which she saw, 
but knew not how to help, was about to put her arm round the neck of 
the girl, who had bowed her head upon her clasped hands ; when the 
latter, looking suddenly and almost fiercely up, cried : — : ' I can't — it's 
no use — too late, I tell you, too late ! Go, go ; you mock me ; go !" 

The child, disconcerted, drew back ; and after standing a few mo- 
ments more, vainly watching this wild wretchedness, finding that she did 
not raise her head, or speak again, the little creature, not without many 
a hesitating step, and wistful look behind, went upon her way, regretting 
the poor woman would not come and help in the search. 



THE VOTARESS. 1 1 

And still that unhappy woman sat there, with her head upon her 
clasped hands, her arms flung across her lap. her whole attitude expres- 
sive of the despondency that possessed her. 

'•Fit only to be trodden under foot, it was I — I — who flung myself 
into the dust and soil !" These were some of the goading thoughts 
whispered by conscience. ' ; Castaway, abject thing that I am, abandoned, 
despised, lost, — who was it that first degraded my own being from what 
it might have been ? Had I not been false to myself, could the treachery 
of others have effected my ruin ? ' The way to Heaven V Ay, I might 
once have learned it, had I kept, an innocent child, by my father's knee, 
and hearkened to the good lessons he taught. Had I never wandered 
from his cottage roof, or suffered myself to listen to words more flatter- 
ing than his simple praise, I still might have been worthy — still have 
noped ; but for me there is no hope — none. My feet were led astray 
once and for ever from the right path — and since then, lower, and lower, 
and ever lower, till now I am fallen among ruffian companions, insulted, 
outraged, spurned even by them !" 

After remaining thus, some time, crouching listlessly, in a sort of 
stupor, as if abandoned to the lowly position which best seemed to assort 
with the condition of abasement in which she beheld herself, her course 
of thought seemed to take a more active turn, impelling her to rise, and 
walk forward with a hurried step. 

•Her eye followed the silvery flowing of the river that ran close by 
the road she was pursuing; it seemed to lapse gently on. whispering of 
peace, and repose, and forgetfulness. after a weary struggle of misery. 
And still the stream seemed to lure her on. and on, promising rest and 
solace, could she once find courage to throw herself trustingly into its 
whelming bosom. Yet still she walked on by its side, hesitating : con- 
fused by a thousand doubts, fears, and conflicting images of possible 
gain, and possible evil — of exchanging her present anguish for worse — of 
the mockery of peace in the reality of eternal unrest. Once take that 
fatal plunge, from which there is no withdrawal — and what might be the 
unknown region she should enter. What strange penalty might not her 
very rashness incur ? How was she to secure repose by an act of daring, 



12 

of violence ? Should it not rather be the prelude to renewed turmoil — 
perpetuated suffering ? She withdrew her eyes from the alluring stream, 
shuddering ; yet not many minutes elapsed, ere her look was again 
fascinated towards its bright, its soothing flow. 

" What else have I left me, but death?" she muttered. "Death now, 
or death some time hence ; what will the interval bring me, should I 
accept one, but continued evil, added guilt? Some days, and months, 
or years more of disgrace and outrage, added to those that have already 
been endured. Why heap up more by that which has been foully 
achieved? Why increase my own offences, my own weight of injury? 
If death come now, it will but prevent another period of vicious life- — 
for what course but vice can be mine ? A creature branded with sin, 
steeped in infamy as I, can take no one step in good ; all paths of virtue 
and hope are closed against such as I, by those who have never known 
the grief of straying ; no act of goodness, no office of kindliness, would 
be accepted at my hand; no deed of charity be tolerated in me; no 
worthy emotion of mine be believed ; no yearning after excellence meet 
response. What then is left me but to end this course of wrong and 
wretchedness ? 

In the energy of her self-communing, and hurried walk, the girl had 
insensibly traversed a considerable distance along the river side. 

As she paused, trying to derive strength, from the very extremity of 
her despair, for the plunge which was to dare all that might come, so 
that the past were blotted out, she looked round for an instant, upon the 
scene of her intended farewell to earth. 

It was a wild and desolate spot, remote from any chance of passing 
footstep. Its gloom and solitude fitted it for her purpose, — was the 
thought that glanced across the girl's mind ; though the next, was one 
which curled her lip bitterly, as it suggested that there was not a being 
in the world whose interest in the poor outcast would have sufficed to 
prompt interference, could her intended deed have been witnessed. 

" Rejected of man — let me seek mercy of God !" she murmured, 
turning once again to the river. 

But in turning, her eye caught sight of something white that lay 



THE VQTARESS. \c 

among the rank grass, at a little distance. An impulse, for which she 
could not have accounted, led her to go and look at it more closely ; 
and she then discovered the child, whom she had twice encountered that 
morning, lying upon the ground, in a fast sleep. 

It seemed tired and foot-sore ; for its shoes were dusty and worn — 
so worn, that one little foot peered through the broken sole, and was 
slightly stained with blood ; the arms lay half extended, with the careless 
grace and ease of childhood, and the hair fell on either side the face in 
masses disordered by exercise and weariness ; but though there were 
these traces of fatigue about the little creature, there was still, through 
all, that look of spotless innocence and calm, which had conveyed to 
Nanni the impression of something spiritual and unearthly in this child. 

Ethereal, holy, pure, apart from the grossness of the material world, 
this little being seemed to the girl, as she bent over the sleeping face. A 
celestial expression of softness dwelt upon the features, such as a cherub's 
might wear ; and the transparent beauty of the cheek was almost more 
than belongs to mortality. Helpless as it lay there, it seemed to embody 
so powerfully the spirit of purity, that Nanni felt as if she could have 
knelt and worshipped the presence she involuntarily recognized. 

Grently, reverently, she stooped, and drew off the little shoes ; then 
tearing her handkerchief into strips, she bandaged the wounded feet, 
after having bathed them in some water fetched in the hollow of her 
hand from the river. 

Though she did all this as softly and tenderly as she might, yet 
during her ministry, the child awoke, sat up, and with outstretched 
elbows, began rubbing its eyes with the backs of its dimpled hands, 
while it sleepily watched the operation. 

" Thank you ! How kind you are ! How nicely you have bound up 
my feet ! They were very sore with walking so far. I was very tired, 
I believe, and fell asleep ;" said the child. 

" You must have been tired, to have walked such a long way. How 
far do you live from here '?" asked Nanni. 

"Oh, a great far away off from here. It must be, for I walked all 
the morning ; returned the child. " But I could'nt find my way, and 
so I must go home now, and try another day." 



14 ISABELLA; 

" Where is your home ?" inquired Nanni. 

" I don't know ; Oh, in Vienna — I should know the house if I saw 
it — but I don't know the street ;" said the child. 

" I'll try and find it for you, if you like ;" said Nanni. 

" I like ;" answered the child with the prompt frankness of her age ; 
at the same time putting her hand with confidence into the hand of the 
stranger who offered help. 

" I'll carry you as far as I can ;" said Nanni. " Your feet are too 
sore to bear much walking." So saying, she raised the child in her 
arms, and felt a thrill of pleasure, as those other little soft innocent 
ones curled themselves round her neck. 

They went on thus for some time ; then the child said : — u You are 
very good ; but you must be tired. Change arms." 

Nanni set her down for a moment, and attempted to lift her up on 
the other side ; but she was compelled to desist, and to place her on the 
ground again, turning very pale, and uttering a stifled groan as she 
did so. 

" What's the matter ?" said the child ; are you ill ?" 

" No ; I got a hurt this morning — here ;" and the girl put her hand 
upon her bosom ; but it's nothing — it don't pain me, when I have you 
on the other arm. We'll rest a bit ; and then I'll take you up again, on 
that side." 

Nanni placed the child on the moss-grown root of a tree that grew 
near, leaning against the trunk herself, and trying to speak cheerfully 
with her young companion. 

' ; See what a crowd of branches there is over your head ! What a 
fine resting-place they make for the little birds' nests ! And what a 
thick shelter they give, when the rain comes pattering down !" said she. 
" Look, too, how well that sprawling root serves you for a seat ; and 
what a pleasant shade there is from the close leaves ! 0, it's a grand 
old tree? isn't it?" 

But the child didn't answer ; her eyes were fixed on Nanni's face, 
and she was lost in thought. 

" Then that was the reason you were crying, when I found you sitting 



THE VOTARESS. 15 

by the roadside, this morning ;" she said at length, ponderingly. " I 
didn't know you had been hurt — I thought you were sorry." 

"I was both sorry and hurt;" said Nanni, in a low tone; and with 
the old trouble in her look. 

" Then why won't you come with me ?" returned the child. " I 
asked you to come and help to try and find the way to Heaven — and 
there, you know, there's neither pain nor sorrow ; they told me so." 

' : There's no way to Heaven for me ;" said Nanni, with a broken 
voice, that had music in its hopeless lament. 

" How do you know?" said the child. "Though I couldn't find it 
to-day, and was obliged to give it up, and lie down — 0, so tired ! — yet I 
mean to try again to-morrow — and if I don't find it then — the next 
day — and if not then, the next and the next. I'll never stop trying — 
because I know what a happy place it is — and because my own mamma 
told me I should come to her there, some day ; and so, if I mean to go 
on trying to find the way, why should't you ?" 

Poor Nanni only shook her head ; but finding the child expected her 
to speak, asked her some question about her mother, which might serve 
to divert the child's attention from herself. 

" My own dear mamma died ;" said the child in her grave earnest 
way. u She told me she should. She told me that I was not to grieve 
when she was taken away, and laid in the churchyard, for that she hoped 
to go to heaven, where, if her little Isabella were very good, and tried 
hard to be worthy, and keep the right path, she might one day come to 
her. But I did grieve at first, — I was very sorry to disobey my own 
mamma, — but I couldn't help it, when she was taken away from me ; 
and I cried very much for a long time, and used to go and sit in the 
churchyard, near grave where they laid her ; but then I remembered 
that if I went on doing as she had forbidden me — that was not being 
' good,' or ' worthy.' And then I remembered what she had said about 
the ' right path ' to Heaven, and what a happy beautiful place she had 
told me it was ; and so I resolved to try and find it, and never to give 
up the hope of coming to her in Heaven." 

: 'And who takes care of you now your own mamma is gone?" asked 



16 ISABELLA : 

Nanni after a pause, during which the child's thoughtful blue eyes had 
been fixed upon their kindred skies, and her own had been sadly cast 
upon the ground. 

""When papa went away to the wars, which he was obliged to do twc 
days after my own niamrna died," said the child, "he left me in the care 
of Frau Leerheim ; and my brother Claudio too, only he is always away 
at college." 

"I think I know where Madame Leerheim lives ; she's a widow-lady, 
isn't she ?" said Nauni. i; But her house is quite at the other end of 
the city — it's a long way indeed ; come, hadn't we better be going, or it'll 
be dark before we can get there." And Nanni would have lifted up the 
child again, but little Isabella would not hear of being carried any more, 
protesting that her feet were well now — and that she was not a bit tired, 
but quite rested, and able to walk on stoutly. 

The child said this so firmly, and took Nanni's hand so composedly, 
and walked on with so decided a step, rather seeming to lead, than to be 
led — that the girl, although the grown-up person, submitted unconsciously 
to the guidance of the little creature, as to that of a superior intelligence. 

Indeed, it was remarkable, that throughout, this had been the tone 
of their intercourse. The child seemed to possess an influence, powerful, 
but involuntary and unconscious. — on either part, — upon the young wo- 
man. From the momentary awe which the first sight of the little mourner 
among the graves had awakened, to the interest inspired by the sleeping 
child. — an interest sufficient to withdraw her from a fatal purpose, — the 
impression upon Nanni had been uniform ; she could not help regarding 
her as something sacred, and commanding reverence — almost, worship. 

"When she had tended the wounded feet, it was less as a woman re- 
lieving a poor little wayfarer, than as a devotee yielding pious service ; 
when she had offered to convey her home, it was less a grown person pro- 
posing to protect and succor a wandering child, than a faithful attendant 
too happy if duty find acceptance. When the woman addressed the 
child, there was the same thing observable; deference, respect, tacit 
avowal of self inferiority in every gesture and inflection of voice. It was 
the instinctive homage paid by lost innocence to its visible image in the 
person of that pure child. 



THE VOTARESS. 17 

There was a feeling of security — of safety, which Nanni felt from the 
presence of the child, ever since it had been the means of rescuing her 
from her meditated destruction. She hardly knew how it was that her 
intent had been frustrated, but she felt that it was gone ; that she had 
no design of resuming it ; and that with its departure was associated the 
little creature by her side, who had taken its place, and whose presence 
inspired strange comfort. 

They had reached the suburbs of the city, and were making their 
way through the low miserable houses that straggled on either side of 
the way, leadinginto Vienna ; when Nanni perceived that the litfcle Isa- 
bella limped as she walked, in spite of all her efforts not to seem tired 
or footsore. 

" I wish you would let me carry you," said Nanni. 

" No, oh no;" said Isabella. " I would rather not be carried; but I 
should like to sit down and rest ; and then I could walk on again, very 
well." 

Nanni looked about her with a disturbed look ; and then seemed to 
debate some point with herself. It came to a decision, by her mutter- 
ing: — "I ought not to take her there — nor I would not — but she must 
have rest and food ; yes, yes, she must." 

So concluding, she turned down among some houses that stood on 
their right, at one of which — a small low-roofed one, near to a much 
larger one, — she stopped, and taking a key out of her pocket, unlocked 
the door, and led the way in. 

They entered at once into a kind of parlor ; though of mean appear- 
ance, with sanded floor, checked window-curtains, and table and chairs of 
commonest wood. 

Two of the latter Nanni speedily made into a kind of couch, upon 
which she spread her shawl, and a folded quilt, which she fetched from 
an inner room ; and then she placed the child carefully on these tempo- 
rary cushions, to rest at full length. Then she bathed and bandaged the 
little feet afresh, touching them with a light soft hand, — once, pressing 
her cheek tenderly against them ; and then she arose from the kneeling 
posture she had taken while doing this, and went to a cupboard at the 



18 

opposite side of the room, whence she brought some bread, which she cut 
iuto slips, and an egg, which she beat up with a little wine and sugar 
and then she set the whole on a small table, which she brought close be- 
side Isabella's couch, and begged her to eat. 

" And you are going to have some with me ?" said the child. " Ho^ 
nice this is ! And what a comfortable sofa you have made me ! And 
what a snug room this is? Is this your house?" 

u My house ? Yes. yes, never mind — don't think about that. — Hush !" 
The girl started up, trembled, listened ; then ran to the door by which 
they had entered, and hastily fastened it. 

The next instant a voice was heard outside, saying : — " Nanni, let me 
in ! I want to speak to you ! Let me in, I say." 

It was a woman's voice, but peculiarly disagreeable : it was harsh 
and grating, yet with a whine of cajolery that was still more repulsive ; 
it was authoritative, yet wheedling ; loud, yet fawning. 

" You can't come in, Mrs. Ov " the girl checked herself in the 

name, and added, ' ; I can't let you in, now." 

" What, you're not alone, my girl ?" said the voice, with a laugh, the 
most discordant, and unlike a laugh, that can be conceived. 

" No ;" replied Nanni, glancing anxiously at Isabella, and hurriedly 
putting her finger on her lip. in token that she should keep silence. 

" That's another affair ;"' rejoined the voice with a second horrible 
chuckle, which dwindled off, as the speaker seemed to retreat from the 
door, and go away. 

Nanni heaved a deep sigh of relief, though she still trembled, and 
looked pale. 

" What woman was that ?" whispered the child. 

" Hush ! Don't ask — pray don't ask — anything about her — anything 
about me." 

" Well, I won't ask about her. if you don't wish it," said little Isa- 
bella soothingly, for she could see that the girl was much agitated ; "but 
I hope you won't tell me not to ask about you — for I want to know your 
name, that I may think of you. and know who it is that has been so kind 
and good to me." 



THE VOTARESS. 10 

K No, no. — pray. — my name is nothing: — and yet. yes. for that very 
reason — if you wish it. dear/' — and the girl diffidently faltered out the 
last word, as if she had no right to say it. but could not resist the plea- 
sure it gave her to do so. 

•■ I do wish it. indeed :" said the child. 

- Then it is Anna — Nanni; — they call me Nanni;" said the girl. 

: - Dear kind Nanni. come and sit here by me — no. not on this side — 
come round to the other." 

The girl did not understand the child's meaning, but in obedience to 
her signal, took her seat on the right hand ; when Isabella, raising her- 
self upon her knees on the couch, threw her arms round Xanni's neck, 
and hugged her affectionately, and said : — - Thank you. thank you. dear 
Nanni. for all your kindness to me ! ; ' 

As the childish arms twined around, and the little body strained 
against her. and the fresh rosy lips were pressed to her cheek in hearty 
true caresses, the tears gushed from the girl's eyes. 

'•Do I hurt you. dear Nanni? I thought it was the other side that 
was bruised, or I would not have pressed so hard " 

-It is not that — you don't hurt me — you do me good — you make 
me happier than I ever expected to be again — dear, blessed, little crea- 
ture — dear little angel" — she repeated, as she ventured timidly to return 
the embrxces that were being lavished on her. 

; - Do I do you good ? I am glad of that — you have been very good 
to me : you have done me good : :; said the child. 

- Good? Have I been permitted to do good?' was the thought that 
thrilled through the heart of the castaway: while the nearest approach 
to a gracious feeling which had swelled that heart for many a day. now 
caused it to throb with grateful emotion towards Him who had vouch- 
safed the permission. 

- But I must not keep you here." said Nanni. rousing herself from 
this trance : - your friends will be uneasy : the night is coming on : 
Frau von Leerheim will be alarmed at your being so long away, and 
will wonder what is become of you." Xanni again did unconscious good. 
in thus proposing Isabella's departure. She was not aware how unself- 



20 ISABELLA ; 

ishly, how disinterestedly, how heroically she was acting,' in thus hast- 
ening to deprive her dwelling of the only image of brightness that had 
illumined it for years. It was as if a gloom, beyond the dusk oi 
evening, had settled upon the room, when that fair child stepped out 
from its threshold. Purity and peace withdrew their light, and left 
within the place, the shadows of its old haunters, — depravity, sin, pol 
lution. 

But though she acted upon that right impulse, which prompted her to 
take back the child, instead of yielding to one which might have urged 
her to detain it longer by her side, while at the same time unaware that 
she had acted from any principle at all, yet she felt the full force of the 
pain it cost her to part with this interesting little being, when the 
moment came for separation. 

They entered the street where Nanni guessed that the widow Leer- 
heim lived. The child pointed out the house, and was running towards 
the door, when the girl said rapidly : " Bid me goodbye now, dear ; I 
can't go in — I musn't stay — say goodnight now." 

She caught the child's hands in hers, and covered them with kisses, 
while Isabella said in the simple nightly words she had been taught by 
her dead mother : " Goodnight ! God bless you ! " And then Nanni 
turned suddenly, hurried from the spot, and was soon lost amid the 
darkness, which was now deepening upon the city. 

But that night, when the darkness had yielded to the rising moon, and 
her beams fell upon a certain small casement in the low-roofed house, 
there was one sat at the casement, who breathed an unwonted prayer and 
thanksgiving, for that she had been spared the crowning sin of self-de- 
struction ; for that an act of grace had been permitted and accepted at 
her unworthy hands ; and for that a blessing from the lips of spotless 
purity had been granted to rest upon her outcast head. 

UTUIUI 

Frau Leerheim was what is generally called a well-meaning woman. 
She was so well-meaning, that she contented herself with meaning to do 
well, instead of doing well; and her friends, when they could find no- 
thing of any consequence to praise in her well-doing, gave her all the more 



THE VOTARESS. 21 

credit for well-meaning, finding that that was the great end of her life, 
at which she constantly stopt short. She was passive, when others were 
eager ; she was indifferent when others were all anxiety ; she was inert, 
tvhen others were active— but then she was so well-meaning. 

She would smile, when an answer was required; she would bend her 
head, when an assertion was made; she would shrug her shoulders, when 
a question was asked, which proved that she was uncommonly sweet- 
tempered, and very well-meaning. 

She would say, when anything distressing occurred : " Dear me, 
what a pity ! can't anything be done to relieve the sufferers ?" When 
an act of injustice was committed, she would exclaim : " Is it possible % 
Oughtn't this to be seen into, or reformed, or punished?" If she heard 
of wrong or disaster, she would pathetically remark : ' : But really now, 
they should take means to prevent this happening again !" 

What a kind-hearted woman ! And how extremely well-meaning ! 

Being so sweet-tempered, and kind-hearted, and particularly well- 
meaning, she was of course the most fit person in the world to have the 
charge of children ; and accordingly, when the father of Claudio and 
Isabella was left a widower, and was compelled immediately after to quit 
Vienna to join the regiment of which he was colonel, he was persuaded 
by his friends, that he could not possibly find a more proper person to 
take care of his motherless children during his probably long absence 
than Frau Leerheim, who was a widow-lady of genteel birth, but of 
somewhat reduced circumstances, and therefore likely to undertake the 
charge willingly, for a suitable stipend. 

The arrangement was accordingly made ; Claudio, the boy, having 
Madame Leerheim's house as a home whenever his vacations at college 
made him need one ; and Isabella, the little girl, remaining at the widow- 
lady's constantly, but subject to little controul or discipline there ; the 
mistress being too mild and well-meaning to exert much authority over 
the child, " who of course liked to do as it chose, poor thing." and the 
servants availing themselves of their mistress's example by never tending 
or watching the child too closely. 

The consequence was that the young Isabella went and came pretty 



22 

much as she liked : roaming about the house, which was spacious, at her 
own will : peeping into the large lonely rooms, peopling them with her 
own fancies : looking at the grim family portraits that hung by the 
walls, or at the old-fashioned furniture that lurked in corners ; wander- 
ing about hither and thither, at her own hours, and in her own company 
only. 

There was slight chance of the child meeting any restriction in her 
freedom ; for Frau Leerheim, since her husband's death, had confined 
herself mostly to one apartment, and had contented herself with saying 
of the rest of the house : " The servants will see that the other rooms 
are set to rights, as much as they require; one room is quite enough for 
me now: but there's no need for me to move into a smaller house; it 
will do as well as auother ; all houses are the same to me, now." 

Thus it came, that when Isabella's ramblings led her beyond the large 
lonely rooms, and beyond the walls of the house, and out of doors, 
even as far as the churchyard where her mother's grave was, their extent 
was still unnoted ; for she generally came back about meal-time — and so 
that Frau Leerheim saw her in her usual place at table, she was quite 
satisfied as to the general whereabout of the child. 

But on the day when Isabella's fancy to seek her mother in Heaven 
led her to stray so far, and when the dinner hour passed, and the after- 
noon collation hour passed, and still she did not return, Frau Leerheim 
said : " I wouder where that child can be ! I wonder she don't come 
home ! I wonder they take her out for so long a walk. Fritz," added 
she to the lad, who was the only one left of the staff of footmen she 
had formerly kept, ' ; ask Bertha which of the maids it was who took 
the child out for so long a walk : it was very thoughtless, whoever it 
was ; but servants are so thoughtless. There certainly ought to be some 
way invented of making servant girls less giddy ; they should be taught 
better." 

But when she heard that no one had taken the child abroad : that 
Isabella had gone out by herself, she exclaimed : " 0, but really now ; 
they should not allow that child to go out by herself; she might get into 
mischief; it's positively too careless and neglectful of them. Tell them 



THE VOTARESS. 23 

so below. Fritz. And Fritz ! Be sure and let me know the instant the 

child does return : for I don't know what I should do if any harm were 
to come to it. What would her poor father say !"' 

And when, late in the evening, Fritz, obedient to his lady's wish, 

informed her that the little girl had come home, very tired from b . _ 

ber way. and was now in the act of being eoml . 1. an I ' sh id. and 

made neat to come into Madame's room — Madame said with the 

slightest possible curl of the mouth (it might be a smile, it might be a 

: — 

•• Poor little thing ! I'm so glad she"s come safe Lome ! Bnt if she's 
tired, poor thing, don't let her come to me this evening: tell Bertha to 
have her undressed, and pnt to be t nee : it's a pity to bringherhere 
to-night, when she's so tired — and sleepy, no doubt — and oh yes, hungry 
too, I dare sa y ; — let Bertha give her some frnit and ..: .. 1. : ■ 
thing, before she's put to bed. I hope they'll see that she's made com- 
fortable, poor thing 

• They' was a favourite word with Fran Leerheim. It was so con- 
venient a compromise with her conscience. It was so ace .-.ting a 
recipient /or her own share of responsibility. It offered so safe a prop 
for any onus that suddenly required shifting from her own shoul 
It served a double purpose — it | ssc ssed a dual virtue. It acted at once 
:.- "fender and reformer. It might bear blame wheo she had occ 
to say : — u But really they should not. &c. ice. &e. :" or prove a source 
of expected rectifying and amendment when she said : — u But why don't 
they &c, &c . &c. M No wonder that -they' was a word which ft md 
favor with this well-meaning lady. 

The next day. Frau Leerheim met her young charge at bi .:: -~ 

"And so you lost your way vest-. lid you. Isabella/ Poor 

child ! But how came they to let you go out so far by yourself ; That 
was a sad mistake ! AVhat would papa say. if he knew you went wan- 
dering away so far by yourself i- That mustn't happen again, must it '.- 

•' I wanted to find my way to Heaven, and I'm afraid its a great way 
off!" said Isabella. 

- La child ! : ' exclaimed the widow-ladv. 



24 

" Is it ?" said the child. 

" Is it what V said Frau Leerheim, in a somewhat more peevish tone 
than her usual vapid amiability allowed her to use. 

"Is it a great way off?" said Isabella. 

" What a strange child you are — what questions you do ask ;" said 
the Frau, looking about her perplexedly, as if in search of somebody, 
who she thought really should make this child less strange, and tell her 
not to ask such absurd questions. 

" It must be ;" said the child ; " for nobody seems to know where- 
abouts it is. When I asked Bertha once, where it was, she said it 
didn't signify where, since I should never get there she was certain, as 
long as I let my hair get rumpled, or tore my frock, or was naughty ; 
and when I told her I meant to be neat and good, and therefore I hoped 
she'd tell me where it was, that I might try and find it, she said, ' How 
you worry, miss Bella ; it's out of your reach, I promise you — it's up 
there — up beyond the blue sky — ever so far !' Still, I don't think it 
can be so far, that I shall never find it if I try." said Isabella, thought- 
fully ; " for my own mamma told me I should come to her there one 
day." 

" I can't conceive why people put such notions into children's heads, 
for my part ;" muttered Frau Leerheim. " They really shouldn't ; it's 
positively quite wrong — absolutely wicked — to fill their poor little heads 
with such fancies, making them discontented, and tiresome, and trouble- 
some." 

" What do yo think about it, ma'am V asked Isabella, after a pause, 
during which she had been considering, in her quiet grave manner. 

" About what, child ?" said the Frau. 

" About Heaven — about where it is ;" said Isabella. 

" I don't think at all about it ;" said the widow lady, hastily ; " that 
is," added she, correcting herself — '• I think a great deal about it. of 
course ; we should all think constantly about Heaven, you know ; but 
really, I can't say — I don't know — you're such a little child — you are 
too young in my opinion, to have any explanation — or to understand 
any explanation at present ; you must positively wait, my dear Isabella, 



THE VOTARESS. 25 

till you are old enough to have these things explained to you, which you 
will have, of course, you know, some day or other, I dare say, if your 
teachers do their duty by you, and if your papa provides proper teachers 
for you, which of course he will do, one of these days, I make no doubt." 

Then, seeing Isabella look as if she were again going to ask some 
question, Frau Leerheim added : — " Suppose you go to Bertha, now, 
Isabella, my dear ; and see if she won't show you some pictures, or some 
toys, or something or other, that will amuse you. I shouldn't wonder at 
all, if she have some; so run away, there's a dear child: good bye, good 
bye ;" she said, as she kissed her hand languidly to the child, and nodded 
her out of the room, half smiling, half gaping at her, as Isabella obe- 
diently disappeared. 

But instead of going to Bertha, the child went up into the lonely 
suite of chambers above, where she loitered about among the old pictures 
in their worm-eaten frames, antique commodes, and spiral-legged tables, 
and carved chairs, and dim Venetian mirrors ; her thoughts rambling 
among subjects as odd, obscure, crooked, and puzzling, as these objects 
that surrounded her. 

She sat down at one of the windows, pondering and brooding over 
so much that perplexed her. Questions presented themselves to her 
mind, that crossed and recrossed each other in perpetual recurrence, and 
seemed to find no hope of answer. Why did every one seem so 
anxious to change the subject when she inquired about Heaven? Her 
mother had told her it was more beautiful, more peaceful, than any place 
on earth, and yet they all seemed to shrink from its mention. Why 
was this? Why did Matlame Leerheim find her a strange child, and 
almost always send her.- away, as if she tired her ? Why did Bertha 
think her ' worrying ?' Why was her papa obliged to be away, with the 
army, when she wished him so much to be able to come home, and talk 
to her, and tell her the reason of so much that she could not under- 
stand? Why could not Claudio be more at home, or have longer holi- 
days, or his vacations come oftener round ? Why would not the young 
woman — Nanni, who had been so kind to her in other things, come into 
the house with her when she brought her home ? Why did she not like 



26 

her to notice her own house, or to ask about the woman who came to 
the door with that ugly voice and unpleasant laugh? How had she 
come by that hurt? And was the bruise any better this morning? 
She wished she could know. 

All these, and twenty such questions, flitted through the busy little 
brain, as Isabella sat, in one of the deep-recessed windows, leaning her 
elbow upon the sill, and looking straight before her, without seeing any 
thing, so deeply absorbed was she in her train of thought. But at 
length, glancing through the open casement at which she sat, her eyes 
rested upon a certain quiet shady plot of ground, which, though sur- 
rounded by a high wall, could, from that particular upper window be 
overlooked. 

This green, retired spot, had peculiar charms for the solitary child. 
She would often sit in her favorite window-seat, watching the shadows 
of the spreading trees upon the grass beneath, or as they fell across the 
trim-kept gravel- walks ; she would note the twinkling of- the leaves as 
they strirred and played in the light morning or evening air ; she would 
look at their massive repose, as they rested like painted foliage beneath 
the breathless heat of noon ; she would often creep up here, and watch 
their silvery stillness as they lay placid and beautiful in the beams of 
the moon, when her own due sleeping-hour had been protracted by the 
forgetfulness of the damsel appointed, or rather, allowed, to attend upon 
her. She would take delight in looking upon this only glimpse of 
verdant Nature, that was to be seen from the town house where she 
lived. She would fancy herself running upon the grass, or sitting 
beneath the fine old trees ; and thus enjoy the pleasures of a garden, 
so dear to childish heart, as well as she might, whilst sitting in a dreary 
great house by herself. And yet it was a sober, stately sort of garden, 
with as little of the ordinary gaiety and garishness that makes a pleasure- 
ground, as could be ; it had flew flowers, or shrubs, or fruit-trees. There 
were lofty cedars; towering pines; lindens, oaks, acacias, gnarled-trunked 
chesnuts ; and an avenue of tall formal poplars. It was a solemn, almost 
a gloomy-looking garden ; and yet to the eyes of that lonely child it was 
a green bower of delight ; for to her, the trees were clothed with ever 



THE VOTARESS. 27 

new beauty, and the place itself seemed replete with loveliness and 
peace. She saw the cedars and pines tufted with bright velvet edges, 
when the breath of spring gave them vigor to put forth their young 
shoots ; she saw the delicate pensile blossoms of the linden, where the 
bees clung, making their sweet busy music, which she could fancy she 
heard ; she saw the cheerful glossy boughs of the chesnuts, with their 
brisk leaves, so pointed yet so broad ; she saw the slender forms of the 
poplars bending and waving beneath the pressure of the wind, when it 
chanced to be high. 

There were tender vernal buds — the flush luxuriance of summer 
leaves — the gorgeous hues" of autumnal foliage : — and even in the sullen 
season of winter, there were the graceful lines and tracery of bare leaf- 
less branches, to occupy her thoughts in turn with images of beauty. 

There was another charm too, which this garden had for the young 
eyes that watched it. It was a convent-garden ; and Isabella found a 
strange mysterious pleasure in seeing those dark figures moving to and 
fro, with sombre flowing garments, and black veils, and bent heads, and 
measured pace, beneath and among the trees. So earnestly did she 
observe them, that it was not long before she had formed a sort of 
individual acquaintance with these quiet nuns, and had even gone so far 
as to select some among them for whom she felt a preference. 

There was one nun. an especial favorite with her; one, for whose 
appearance she watched with eagerness, and whom, when she did appear, 
the child followed in every movement with peculiar interest. 

This nun seemed to share her little observer's fondness for the 
garden ; for rarely did she come there, without some implement in her 
hand, with which she sedulously applied herself to trim and cut the 
edges of the lawn, to clip and prune stray twigs, or tend the few flowers 
that were sparingly allowed to adorn the place. 

In the performance of these occupations, would Isabella accompany 
her in attentive vigil, day after day, and hour by hour, whenever, and as 
long as these duties brought the nun to that part of the convent-garden 
which could be seen from the child's post of observation : and thus it 
happened that an affection, unknown by its object, but strong in the 



28 ISABELLA J 

breast of its youthful cherisher, had sprung up towards the one with 
whom there had never been a single word, or even look, exchanged. 

Faith in remote good; worship of excellence beheld from afar; stead- 
fast belief in that which was intangible, yet visible to her soul's sight ; 
firm in adherence to that which she instinctively discerned as right, and 
pure, and true, though as yet unproved to her mortal sense — seemed 
innate principles in this young creature. 

As yet she wandered on alone, with no one to guide her, no one to 
help her in solving the questions her struggling perceptions prompted ; 
but a friend was at hand, who was to lead her through all her difficulties, 
to assist her on her dimly-seen track, and to possess her, firmly and 
enduringly, of the means to win the grand aim of existence. 

On the morning in question, when Isabella, awakening from her 
reverie, cast her eyes towards the convent-garden, hoping to behold her 
favorite nun, they sparkled with delight when she saw her already there, 
training the branches of some ivy that were flaunting idly away from 
the stem of a tree, round which they should have clung for the support 
they needed. 

As the child wistfully looked towards the figure she knew so we/.l, 
and watched that serenely pensive face, wherein she read so much of 
gentleness, and consideration, and benignant patience, that promised 
willing response to all she sought to know,, to all the tenderness she 
yearned to ask and bestow, her longing to hold nearer communion with 
this person so loved, though so unknown, took possession of her with 
strength sufficient to urge her starting up, sliding off the recessed 
window-seat, and making be&way through the suite of deserted rooms, 
as if bent on some resolved purpose. 

"Frau Leerheim said papa would not approve of my wandering so 
far again ; but the convent is not far- —I know the large iron gate — it is 
only in the next street. I'll go there, and peep in the gate, and — 
pprhaps — it may lead into the garden — I may perhaps see my nun 
herself there." 

Thinking thus, Isabella soon was loitering near the tall grated portal, 
' peering in, with an eager look, and a heart beating with expectation. 



THE VOTARESS. 29 

It beat with something like fear, when a very starch lay-sister, the 
portress, approached, and asked her if she wanted any thing or any 
body. 

The tone in which this was said, however, reassured the child: and 
she said : — " If you please, ma'am, I should like very much to walk in 
your beautiful garden, if you think I could be allowed. :; 

•• It isn't hit garden, my dear. I am only sister Gretchen : call me so, 
and not -ma'am: when you speak to me. But I'll try and get Reverend 
mother's leave — that's the abbess here, my dear. — for you to walk 
in the convent garden, if you wish it. I don't see that little innocent 
feet like yours can do the place any harm — and I dare say Reverend 
mother will think so too. Walk in. my clear, and I'll ask her for 
you.'"' 

The starch-looking but kindly-spoken portress trotted away : but 
soon returned with the expected permission. 

•' : You're neighbour Leerheim's little girl — or rather, the little girl 
that lives at her house, an't you?" said the portress, with the inquisitive- 
ness and talkativeness of her vocation, both official and spiritual. 

Isabella answered in the affirmative, and told her her name, as sister 
Gretchen led the way to the garden, the gate of which she threw open, 
saying: — - I thought you were : Reverend mother says she'll trust to 
your word, if you promise that you will do no mischief." 

" I promise ;" said Isabella, in her simple grave manner. 

■• Very well, my dear : and I shall be glad to let you in and out. as 
often as you please to come and go : so now run about and amuse your- 
self, to your little heart's content." 

Isabella, left to herself, yet felt no temptation to give way to the 
usual childish course of running off her exhilaration and joy at behold- 
ing herself actually within the place she had so long admired at a 
distance. Happy as she was at being thus at liberty to roam freely 
among these beautiful trees, and along this verdant turf, yet there was 
still a paramount delight which she expected to enjoy here. She looked 
about her eagerly, trusting to discover her favorite nun in some of the 
paths, or near to some of the flower-beds. 



30 ISABELLA : 

She knew not well how to pursue the direction which should bring 
her to that part of the garden where she had so recently beheld her 
training the ivy : but she went on, in the hope that she might come 
to it. 

At length, just as she was turning into a long walk skirted by a 
sloping turf, surmounted by scattered trees, and ending in the avenue of 
poplars she knew so well, she descried her whom she sought, still 
engaged with the same employment But she was surrounded, by a 
group of other nuns, who were watching her work, and chatting with 
her : and the child involuntarily checked her steps, and after a moment's 
pause, withdrew behind a tree, whence she could observe them, herself 
unseen. It was some undefined wish of speaking to her first by herself: 
something of conscious preference, and the sanctity of secretly cherished 
attachment, which demanded an unwitnessed meeting, and which bade 
the child thus linger, in the hope of addressing her alone. 

Her hope was fulfilled ; the sisters, one by one, dropped off, leaving 
Isabella free to accost her beloved nun as she wished. Yet now that 
she had the opportunity so long and so much desired, she hesitated, and 
hung back timidly : with a still more beating heart than when she had 
stood anxiously peering in at the gate, or when she had asked admit- 
tance, fearing denial. For love, given to an unconscious object, inspir- 
ing both anxiety and fear, is more powerful than either ; and the child, 
approaching the presence >of one thus beloved, glowed and faltered and 
trembled. — agitated, yet happy. 

She fixed her eyes on those of the nun. as she turned in surprise, at 
seeing a strange little girl so close to her, — for Isabella had crept to her 
side unperceivecl, — and putting her hand softly into that which belonged 
to the gentle being whose face had so often filled her with comfort, and 
confidence, and trust, she drew the hand against her fluttering heart, and 
said : — " Will you love Isabella? She loves you very dearly." 

' ; And who is Isabella ?" said the nun ; " though she is a winning 
little creature. 1 see. But how comes she to love me, I wonder? 1 
have never seen her before, that I know of." 

"But she has seen vou, though, very often :" said the child, pointing 



THE VOTARESS. 31 

upwards with a smile, that yet did not take from the earnest gravity of 
her manner. 

She seemed a seraph, such as this nun, accustomed to contemplate 
images of holiness and angelic guardianship, might almost fancy per- 
mitted to look down upon human aspiration and devotion ; one moment's 
glance skyward, revealed the passing fancy ; but the next, she was as- 
sured of that little one's claim to mere mortal childhood, by the matter- 
of-fact way in which it pointed out an upper window of a high house not 
far off. saying: — ' ; There, from that window up there, I could see you 
every day, and watch you gardening, and learn to love you. And I 
longed so much to come to you — and love you near — and ask you to 
love me — and to let me be with you often ; and so— and so — I am come." 

The gentle nun did not belie the impression her distant appearance 
had produced upon the watching child. She was as good as she seemed ; 
as fit to inspire confidence ; as fit to win love and esteem ; as capable of 
giving counsel and instruction ; as wise, as kind, as tolerant, as benign, 
as her every look bespoke her. Willingly did she accept her self-elected 
disciple ; joyfully did she welcome the devotion of this young heart ; and 
earnestly did she devote herself in return to its guidance, its support. 

Yet with the sedate manner which distinguished her, — and which 
was perhaps the one that had first attracted Isabella's regard, as being 
one so akin to her own characteristic of placid gravity, — sister Aloysia 
appointed certain restrictions to their intercourse. She gave the child 
leave to come to her daily ; but she fixed the hour at which she was to 
come, and the period of her stay. 

" Reverend mother grants me three hours in the garden every morn- 
ing," said she ; " during which I am to use the best of my poor skill in 
tending and training these shrubs and plants. During those hours, my 
child, you may come here : and Isabella may prove to me that she is 
pleased to be with me, by never arriving later than nine o'clock, as she 
may prove her punctuality and her wish to please me in return, by 
coming precisely at that hour, and never lingering here beyond noon." 

And now the old lonely life was over ; no longer was the solitary 
child condemned to wander listlessly from room to room, snatching dis- 
tant glimpses of comfort — gazing wistfully for some reliance, some re- 



32 ISABELLA ; 

sponse ; now her full heart met full comprehension ; now her enquiring 
spirit had help and satisfaction. 

Day after day found her punctually at the side of sister Aloysia foi 
the entire space of the allotted three hours ; day after day, her hands 
learned dexterity in aiding the nun in her gardening duties ; day after 
day, her thinking faculties gained clearness and intelligence. Her mind 
and her body reaped benefit alike, in these daily three hours spent in the 
open air, and in the good nun's converse. Her energies, moral, mental, 
and physical, acquired strength and power beneath these propitious 
influences. 

Isabella's dreaming infancy was succeeded by a happy childhood, fos- 
tered by a pure, a wise, a tender monitress. The baby visions of seeking 
Heaven by actual roads and active walking, perplexed her no more ; the 
'" right path' was patiently and reverently explained to her to mean, not 
an earthly highway, but an earthly course through besetting temptations, 
corruption, vicious example, — through trial, sorrow, and trouble, — 
through avoided evil, through maintained virtue. She was taught to 
hope that she might still find that path, though not as she had once sup- 
posed, in her innocent, matter-of-fact, unaided notion ; she was taught 
how she might keep its way, undeviating ; she was taught how she might 
abide by its unerring direction ; she was taught how she might keep in 
view its gloried end — how attain its immortal goal. 

Her aspirations thus indulged, yet directed aright; her young ima- 
ginings given full scope, yet presented with a due aim ; her fervor regu- 
lated while it was fostered — the fanciful visionary became the earnest 
enthusiast ; the young child's vague desire became a rational hope, a firm 
belief, a -steadfast faith, none the less spiritual that it was now based upon 
a knowledge of the truth. It was sublimated ; from an impulse it had 
become a creed. And the little creature who had almost more than mor 
tal aspect, beaming with her innocent trust in an imaginary Heaven, now 
that her soul had been taught to behold its veritable immortal hope 
looked indeed little less than one of the angels. 

While still a child, Isabella was once taken, by Frau Leerheim, in a 
friend's carriage, for a drive on the Prater. When there, the widow- 



THE VOTARESS. 33 

lady got out and walked for a while beneath the trees, taking the child 
with her. 

Suddenly^ Isabella broke away from Madame Leerheim's side, and 
ran towards two young women she saw at a little distance. 

" Nanni, dear Nanni ! I'm so glad I've found you at last :" she said 
to one of them; '-I've often thought about you, and wished to see you 
again. Don't you remember me ? I'm Isabella, the little girl you were 
so kind to, that day, when I lost my way." 

Nanni was about to fling her arms about the child, and give vent to 
her delight at seeing her again .; but Madame Leerheim coming up at the 
instant, Nanni drew back, glancing at the widow's indignant face, who 
exclaimed : — 

" Why, Isabella, my dear, how came you to be talking to such people, 
— what can you know of them ? Come away, directly." 

" She was very kind to me once, I have never seen her since — I must 
thank her — I can't leave Nanni before I tell her how often I've thought 
of her kindness to me that day;" said Isabella, holding to the skirt of 
Nanni's gown ; for she shrank away from her as if she were going, in 
obedience to the angry looks which Madame Leerheim continued to cast 
upon her. 

" Oh dear, this is very naughty, and disobedient of you, Isabella; — I 
insist upon it, you come away from that person directly, and return with 
me to the carriage. What a terrible thing it is, that children will be so 
headstrong, and won't mind what they're told, or do any thing they're 
bid — Oh dear me — tyeh ! tyeh ! tyeh !" concluded the widow Leerheim ; 
her climax of distress and perplexity finding vent in those half articulate 
sounds formed by the tongue against the roof of the mouth, imperfectly 
represented by the above words. 

" Go, go, dear ;" whispered Nanni hurriedly ; "best go." 

Isabella looked for a moment fixedly into the girl's face, and seeing 
how earnest she was, let go her hold ; when Nanni, snatching an end of 
ribbon, that hung from the child's hat, to her lips, turned away: and, with 
her companion, the other young woman, walked quickly out of sight 
among the trees. 



34 

For a few minutes, Madame Leerheim remained fixed to the spot in 
speechless indignation — but when they were again seated in the carriage, 
her vexation found vent in murmurs. 

" Where can you have picked up such acquaintances, I can't think, 
for my part ;" said she. '" Such a disgrace! such a degradation ! I really 
don't know what I should have done, had any of my acquaintances seen 
us near them, much less speaking to them ! How on earth did you ever 
come to meet with such creatures, child ?" 

" Creatures, ma'am ! I only met one of them, before ; I only knew 
her, Nanni — she was very kind to me. I don't know the other young 
woman. But what makes you call them creatures, as if yon despised 
them? Nanni is good and kind; she bound up my feet, and carried 
me, though she was in pain ; and gave me food, and took care of me, 
home." 

" No matter for that, you oughtn't to thank her ;" said Madame 
Leerheim hastily; "you can't thank her — you mustn't thank her." 

" Not thank her !" exclaimed Isabella ; " 1 thought we should be 
grateful for kindness. Why not thank her ?" 

" Dear me, child, how you always tease, with your ' I thought this,' 
and ' I thought that ;' your ' why this,' and your ' why not the other.' 
I tell you, you oughtn't to thank her — you oughtn't to be seen with her ; 
no need of thanks — she's not fit to be thanked — not fit for you to be 
seen talking to." 

" Not fit ! How not fit V said Isabella, in her grave reflecting way. 

" Upon my word, I've no patience with you, child ;" said Madame 
Leerheim, — which was true enough — for she was impatient at her own 
incapacity to evade or answer Isabella's questioning ; " of course she's 
not fit — she's a woman of pleasure, a — I won't say what she is." 

" Pleasure ! She seems to me to be the most unhappy woman I ever 
met with ;" said Isabella half aloud, thinking of what she had once 
beheld of Nanni's vehement grief. 

" So she ought to be ;" said the widow, with a toss of her head. 

" Ought to be ! Ought any one to be unhappy ?" 

" Let me tell you, child," said Frau Leerheim snappishly, for it was 



THE VOTARESS. 35 

wonderful how tart her usual insipid tone could be. on occasion : "let 
me tell you. it's very rude to echo people when they speak. Yon 
ought to know. Isabella, that it's the height of ill-breeding to repeat 
people's words, when they're talking to you. I'm sure the miserable 
wretch isn't worth talking about at all. One oughtn't to sully one's 
lips by even mentioning such creatures." 

Isabella was about to reply. •• Miserable ! if they're miserable, 
oughtn't we to talk about them, and see if we can't help them" — but she 
remembered, just in time, that this would be the • repeating people's 
words' for which she had so lately been rebuked : so she simply said : — 
••I don't understand." 

-• To be sure you don't, child : how should you understand such 
things, at your age V said Madame Leerheini, with a triumphant air. as 
if she had now quite settled the question : and she leaned back com- 
placently among the cushions of the carriage, thinking how well she was 
fulfilling her charge, by keeping the child in blissful ignorance that such 
shocking things as crime and vice were in the world. 

Isabella meantime thought that she would, on the morrow, refer to 
sister Aloysia the many questions she had to ask. secure of explanation. 
however numerous, or however perplexing they might be : and she was 
just wondering how it happened that she should never yet have men- 
tioned her former adventure with Nanni. to her friend the nun. when. 
as- she looked from the carriage-window, she caught sight of Xanni 
turning down one of the by-alleys that threaded the suburbs. She 
noted the spot, and determined to return to it at some future time : for 
her true heart longed to pay some of the debt of kindness it acknow- 
ledged, and she could not but perceive that however inexplicably the 
young woman seemed to acquiesce in* the propriety of their not being 
seen together, she yet took evident delight in her presence. And then 
the child recalled that look — the only one approaching to joy that had 
lighted Xanni's face while she was with her : the look with which the 
poor creature had said : — " you do me good, you make me happier than 
I ever expected to be again." And she resolved that she would come 
again, and try to do her good, and to make her happy, in return for what 
she had done for her. 



36 ISABELLA ; 

It was not many hours, ere she had an opportunity of carrying her 
purpose into effect. In the afternoon, Frau Leerheim, lulled by the 
combined effects of a morning drive through the air, and of a more than 
hearty dinner, — for the widow's well-meaning amounted to well-doing in 
the matter of eating — slept soundly in her easy chair : and Isabella, 
knowing from experience that these naps of the good lady were not only 
profound but prolonged, determined to go and endeavor to find out 
Nanni at once. 

She remembered as she went, how anxious Frau Leerheim had been 
that she should not be seen with Nanni ; and she rejoiced that this quiet 
opportunity had offered for seeking the young woman, without risk of 
infringing the widow lady's wishes. 

" She did not seem to object to my being with her, but to my being 
seen with her ;" thought the little girl. ' : That was strange ! If Nanni 
were really a bad companion for me, Madame Leerheim would have told 
me so, I should think ; but she seemed not to mind my associating with 
her ; only not to like my being seen with her. I'll take care. She lives 
in a very out of the way part of the town, and no one will see me go to 
her. I would not go, if I thought it wrong ; but I know Nanni is good 
and kind — for she was so to me." 

Isabella had no difficulty in finding the turning she had marked 
Nanni taking in the morning; and she soon reached the large house, 
which she remembered stood near to the small low-roofed one, where 
she had been taken bv Nanni on the first evening of their meeting. 

She stepped to the door, and was about to tap at it ; but it yielded 
even to the light push of her childish hand ; and she stood upon the 
threshold. 

So noiseless was her entrance, that it was merely the effect of varia- 
tion in the light, caused by the opening door, which made Nanni look 
up from the abstracted attitude in which she sat, lost in thought ; and 
then she saw the fair image of the child, standing in the afternoon sun- 
beams which streamed through the doorway. Flooded thus, in the rich 
gold and purple effulgence, and with her own clear cheek and brow, 
ethereal bearing, and purity of look, the little girl had even more than 



THE VOTARESS. 37 

her usual appearance of spiritual beauty ; she seemed unearthly, imma- 
terial — a thing of glory and beatitude, sent in pity to mortal frailty. 

" I have found you out, Nanni ; I am come to see you, to thank you 
— I could not thank you this morning and tell you how often I have 
thought of you since that day you were so kind to me." 

At the sound of the childish human voice, the spell was broken. 
Her appearance had but blended so harmoniously with the vision that 
occupied Nanni's thoughts, that it required the evidence of another 
sense to tell her it was a reality she beheld. 

" Dear little angel, is it you ? I was thinking of you — and wonder- 
ing should I ever see you again." 

" Often, dear Nanni, I hope ; I mean to come and find you here, and 
see you, and chat with you ; for we can be quiet, and by ourselves, and 
meet as often as we please, here, can't we?" said Isabella, sitting down 
beside her on the low seat she occupied. 

'■ No, no ; I had forgotten ;" said Nanni hurriedly, and looking 
round her apprehensively, with the old trouble in her face. " You 
mustn't come here, dear, this is no place for you." 

"No place! Why not? Nobody can see us together here — and 
that's all we need mind ; Madame Leerheim said so. Though I don't 
know why. Do you?" 

" She was right — she was right — you must not be seen with such as 
I. - No, no — you must not come." 

" What do you mean, Nanni ? ' Such as you ?' Why, what are you ?" 

The girl shuddered ; suddenly started up, walked a pace or two 
about the room, wringing her hands. " Dear little innocent !" she mut- 
tered; then calming herself by a strong effort, she came towards 
Isabella, and sat down by her again. 

' ; Dear child, listen :" she said. " I cannot tell you how or why it is 
not right for us to be together ; but you will believe that I am telling 
you true, when I say that it is against my own will to ask you not to 
come to me again here ; not to speak to me if you see me at any time 
in the streets ; not to look towards me, or seem to know me. I ought 
perhaps to say, don't even think of me — best forget me — but I can't dc 



38 

it. I can't give up that one blessing, to know you sometimes remember 
poor Nanni." 

" I do indeed ; I have often thought about you since that day you 
were so good to me ; and why mustn't I come to tell you so? I can't 
forget, when any body has been so kind to me as you were." 

" But if you thought me kind then, believe that I am kinder now. in 
telling you not to notice me. or come to me, or be seen with me. To 
show you, how hard it is to me as well as to you. to give up meeting, 
and yet how right I think it. that we should not meet, I will tell you. that 
every night, since that one on which I took you home, I have been to the 
street where you live, and looked up at your house, and wished you in 
my heart, good night, and sweet sleep, and happy dreams, in return for 
the blessed thought that innocent young face has been to me ever since 
I first beheld it." 

' : You have been every night outside our house to bid me good night, 
dear Nanni?" said Isabella, hanging upon her fondly. "And yet you 
will not let me love you in return for so much love ? How can I help 
it? I must love you — I do love you — dearly." 

" Dear child !" said Nanni, in her lowest, sweetest, most plaintive tone. 

" And you will let me come and see you, and tell you so, sometimes, 
won't you dear Nanni ?" urged the child persuasively. 

" I must not — I dare not ;" answered Nanni, resuming her disturbed 
look and manner. " Even now, I am injuring you. by letting you stay 
here; dear little creature, you must go — you must — you must." And 
she passionately kissed one of the long bright curls that hung about the 
child's fair throat. 

' ; I caivt bear to leave you. dear Nanni, as you say I mayn't come 
again," said Isabella ; " but if it is as you say, and we mustn't be friends 
by meeting together, we'll think of each other always, and love each 
other, won't we ? Promise me you'll remember me — and I shall never 
forget you, or your kindness to me. Here," continued the little girl, 
lifting from her neck a small silver chain, to which was attached a kind 
of medallion, with a figure of St. Clare wrought upon it, " here is a gift 
I had from sister Aloysia ; but I know she would be pleased that I 



THE VOTARESS. 39 

should give it to you for a keepsake: and you will wear it in remem- 
brance of me, won't you. dear Nanni?" 

But the girl shrank back. " Not that — not that" — she said in her 
hurried, disturbed way : " give me one of these curls, and I'll keep it 
till my death." 

- If you like it better. — yes :" and the child took up a pair of scissors 
that lay near, and gave them to Nanni, that she might sever the lock she 
still held. 

And when this was done, Nanni repeated her former words : — '• You 
must go. dear child: you must — you must; I may not. dare not let you 
stay. I will not even attend you home. As well no guard, as mine. 
You found your way here unharmed ; you will return as safely. Gro. 
dear, indeed you must." 

" Since I must — goodbye — God bless you, good kind Nanni !" And 
Isabella was gone. As the door closed upon the child's departing 
figure, Nanni's head sank upon her hands, and she exclaimed in a broken 
voice — "'good and kind' only, in wringing my own heart, that I may for 
once do what I know to be right." 

She sat thus for a few minutes, plunged in bitterness of thought ; 
then she started up, determining to follow the child, and watch her, from 
a distance, safely home. 

During those few minutes, Isabella had proceeded on her way ; and 
passing near to the large house that was close by, she saw a huge bloated 
woman, sitting in the doorway, looking out from a sort of hatch, or low 
gate, that formed the entrance. 

The bloated woman, who seemed to be eating some kind of stewed 
fruit from a dish that rested on her lap, nodded at the little girl, and 
said : — ; -' How d'ye do, my pretty miss ?" Then she beckoned with one of 
her fat fingers, and said : — '•'- Come here, pretty miss. I want to speak t'ye !" 

But Isabella did not go any nearer ; she only looked at her with that 
sort of involuntary pertinacity which sometimes seizes children, and 
rivets their gaze upon what is at the same time unutterably repulsive to 
them. She could not help fixing her eyes upon the loose-hanging 
cheeks : the dark puffy lumps under the eyes ; those fierce, yet leering 



40 

black eyes themselves ; the coarse-grained, pimply skin, with its purple, 
and crimson, and red patches of colour ; and above all, she could not 
keep from watching that single projecting tooth, which moved, and 
shifted, with every word and every grin, that twisted the horrible mouth. 

" Come to me, my pretty miss ; won't you come to me ?" said the 
wheedling voice ; which Isabella now recognized for the one that had 
spoken outside the door of Nanni's house, on that first evening she had 
come to this place ; " won't you come here, and have some of these nice 
prunes ?" 

" I'd rather not. thank you ;" and Isabella hurried on, glad to get 
away from the foul sorcery of that loathly face. 

By the time she reached the more public thoroughfare, Nanni had 
overtaken her sufficiently to have her in sight ; and then, keeping aloof 
but vigilant, she saw the child once more to her own door. 

Next morning, full of the many thoughts that sprang out of this re- 
newed encounter with one who had, from the first, so much interested 
her, Isabella hastened at the appointed hour to the convent garden, 
where she eagerly related to sister Aloysia all the circumstances of 
her meeting with Nanni ; and then proceeded to question her upon all 
that so much perplexed her in them. 

The good nun had seldom had a more difficult or painful task. 
Difficult, inasmuch as she had to make clear to a child's comprehension 
that which involves matter of enigma even to full-grown brains ; painful, 
inasmuch as she had to introduce her neophyte, for the first time, to the 
knowledge of the existence of evil. But sister Aloysia was a being to 
shrink from neither difficulty nor pain. The one she was well-fitted to 
encounter, by a patient heart, a clear mind, strong sense, and more of 
hard-earned personal experience than might have been expected from 
her vocation ; for sister Aloysia had gone through the fiery ordeal of a 
life of tribulation, and of worldly care and suffering, before she found 
peace as a nun ; and as for pain, her sense of duty led her to meet and 
sustain it with martyrlike endurance and fortitude. 

" Why should she wish me not to remain in her house, or to be with 
her at all ?" was one of the child's most frequently recurring questions, 



THE VOTARESS. 41 

and one which seemed to puzzle her more than all : for she could not re- 
concile this with Nanni's evident love of her presence. 

" She knew it was not good for you ; it was on your account, she 
said that." 

" Why V 

" It was not right for you, and she knew it, for you to be with her, 
and she spoke for your sake, not for hers. She had not courage to tell 
you. who showed a fondness for her, that she did not deserve it: that she 
was not good and virtuous, and consequently no fit companion for an 
innocent child like you." 

' ;; Not good?' She was' good and kind to me, when I was sore-footed 
and tired, and had lost my way. ' Not good V You say she spoke for 
my sake, not hers — and that was good and unselfish, was it not? Nanni 
must be good !" 

" You cannot yet understand how she is not good in the sense I 
mean, my child," said the nun. " But you can comprehend this ; that 
a person may be imperfectly good ; good in one thing and not in another. 
For instance, you yourself are truth-telling ; an honest, courageous, good 
child, in coming to tell me of a fault when you have committed one ; 
and yet you are sometimes weak enough not to be able to resist com- 
mitting the fault itself. The other day, you could not forbear giving 
way to more violent expressions than became you, when you found that 
sister Josepha had neglected to water those new cuttings. I have fre- 
quently warned you against a warmth of indignation in your disposition, 
which exists beneath your calm exterior : and which, if not watched and 
checked betimes, will become a serious evil. You might have concealed 
that instance of it from me, but you did not ; you told me of your 
misconduct yourself. Here, you see, you may be weak and faulty in 
one case, but frank and worthy in another ; can you not therefore con- 
ceive that Nanni may be kind and good to you, yet not good in other 
respects?" 

Isabella pondered : then said : " Yes ; I see." 

" Even she herself, you say," continued the nun, " owned that Madame 
Leerheim was right in saying you should not be seen with her. It is 



42 

so. She herself knows it as well as any one : and it is one of the best 
things in her favor that she admits this, by bidding you not to come. 
One of the evils of going to her house you can yourself perceive, and 
which she would save you from. It is evident, from what you tell me 
of that dreadful woman who came to her door that night, and whom 
you afterwards saw with a face so matched to her voice, that she is in 
the habit of entering Nanni's house ; and such a woman you would not 
like to meet. 

Isabella breathed a whispered, but earnest "No." Then she thought 
a few moments ; and then she said : — " But Nanni's wishing to save 
me from meeting this frightful woman was kind % That was good, 
wasn't it ?" 

'• It was right of her to prevent her coming in then ; but she may not 
be able always to do so : you find that your going to her house yester- 
day, brought you to see and to speak to that woman, without Nanni's 
even knowing of it, much less, her being able to save you from it. The 
mere fact of her having such neighbours and associates, shows that her 
house is no fit resort for you : no fit place for you to go to any more ; 
and vou will, I know, give me your promise that you will never do so 
without my permission. In return, I promise you. that I will at some 
future time, when I think you at a more fit age to understand me. try 
to give you better and more explicit reasons : afc present. I can only ask 
vou to refrain from farther intimacy, on my simple word that it is far 
the best : best for you. and even for poor Nanni. who is thus far good, 
that I believe her bitterest punishment now. would be the reflection 
that you risked coming to harm through her." 

" You call her ' poor Nanni !' You pity her then, though she is not 
good, you say." 

' ; I pity her for that very reason ; none are so deeply to be pitied as 
those who are not good : and none are more to be pitied than those who 
are not good in the sense that she is not good : and one of the most 
pitiable things attendant upon not being good in the way that she is not 
good, is, that it so little bears animadversion, discussion, or explanation. 
Honest examination into an evil is one great step towards reform. 



THE VOTARESS. 43 

Were the delinquency of Nanni and her unhappy sisterhood as open to 
general reprobation as the thief's or burglar's crime, it might be. that 
we should have fewer such cases as hers to deplore. And now. my dear 
child, let us talk of something else ; ; ' added the nun. who had spoken 
the latter few words, as if to herself. 

Soon after this conversation with her friend and preceptress. Isabella 
had her thoughts entirely diverted from the subject that had so lately 
occupied them, by the society of her brother Claudio. The college 
vacation enabled him to be at home at this time, and a very happy 
holiday it was for them both. 

Claudio was a fine, spirited boy: handsome, lively, active, with a 
keen sense of enjoyment, and a relish for the sports of his age. But 
this did not prevent his liking the quiet companionship of his young 
sister, or occasion his giving himself any airs of seniority towards her. 
although he was a year or two older than herself — a circumstance that 
sometimes operates upon boys of his age in making them contemptuous. 
or at best, condescending, to little girls of hers. On the contrary, the 
grave earnestness that distinguished Isabella, the refined character of 
her beauty, her contemplative nature, her spiritual look, while even yet 
a child, inspired her brother with something that almost amounted to 
reverence of feeling towards her : his affection partook of admiration : 
his love was strengthened by esteem : and he regarded her with a sort 
of tender respect, as one whom he instinctively felt to be of a higher 
nature than his own. This in no way detracted from the ease of 
intimacy and force of attachment between them. He was of too genuine. 
too noble a disposition, for any perception of her superiority to do 
otherwise than heighten his regard : and that, which in a less worthy 
temper might have generated envy, or estrangement, in his induced 
only reliance and enthusiastic preference. He was as fond of his young 
sister, as he was proud of her. 

The very first day of his return, he had told her of his college* 
mates: of who were his favorites, of who were his antipathies, of who 
wu-e his chief associates : of who among the masters and professors 



44 ISABELLA J 

were most to his liking, and of whom he could best learn ; he told her 
of his school-hours, of his pastimes ; of his studies, of his recreations ; 
he told her of the great resource he had in the friendship of his father's 
friend, the lord Escalus, whose house was not far from the college, and 
who made a point of having him there as often as he could obtain per- 
mission to visit. 

And then he made her tell him of her own pursuits ; of how she 
passed her time; of how she amused herself; of how she spent the daj 
from hour to hour. 

In all he took a warm interest. He vehemently pitied her former 
loneliness in the deserted suite of rooms ; he indulged in a few hearty 
expressions of disgust at the vacancy of her intercourse with the well- 
meaning widow-lady, who was no favorite of his ; he congratulated her 
upon having formed so happy a friendship with the good nun. On the 
incident of her acquaintance with Nanni he made no comment, for it 
was not mentioned to him. From some intuitive impulse. Isabella, in 
narrating to her brother what had befallen since his last vacation, omit- 
ted any allusion to that one circumstance. Perhaps it was the sort of 
mystery which still invested the incident in her imagination, which 
prompted her clear transparent mind to avoid all speech of what it 
would otherwise have openly discussed ; as long as it remained en- 
shadowed and obscure, her delicacy forbidding approach to the subject. 

But on the theme of her gentle friend, sister Aloysia, Isabella's con- 
fiding fluency could find full scope ; freely and joyously did she pour 
forth to her brother all she felt, and all she hoped, from this delightful 
intercourse with the nun. 

" She is so patient with me, dear Claudio ; never weary of answering 
my questions ; never finding fault with me when 1 am stupid, and can't 
perceive her meaning at once ; never caring how often she repeats an 
explanation, or in how many ways she re-words a sentence, if I am unable 
to make it out. And then she tells me such curious things, and so many 
of them, and encourages me to consider them with her, and to tell her, 
in return, if there is any thing I don't understand in what she speaks 
of, that I could wish our three hours were twelve. I should like to be 



THE VOTARESS. 45 

all day — always — for ever, with sister Aloysia ! You will love her 
dearly. Claudio, when you know her." 

" But I shall never know her, I suppose;" said Claudio, half laughing; 
"nuns don't leave their convent, remember, Isabel." 

•• 0, but I hope I shall have leave to take you into the convent-garden 
with me, to see her;" said his sister. It is a beautiful garden — with fine 
trees — and smooth lawns — you will like to be able to go into the garden 
whenever we please, and play there." 

" That's not likely, Isabel ; they won't let me go there." 

" Why not ?" said she. 

" They don't admit men — that is a boy — into a nunnery." 

"Why not?" she repeated. 

" because they don't;" said he. shyly; then he added laughing, 
" that's a girl's reason ; but it must suffice you, Isabel, being a girl." 

And both his shyness and his laughing words had more of boyish 
assumption of superior knowledge, than was usual to him, when speaking 
to his sister Isabella. 

'• Well, we shall see ;" said she. nodding and smiling in her turn. 

But she found, when she asked leave for her brother as well as her- 
self to come to the convent-garden, that it was refused ; and as he had 
predicted, because no male visitors were admitted. However, there was 
a portion of the grounds — where a conservatory stood, in which exotics, 
and other botanical rarities were cultivated — which was not considered 
within the precincts, and to which the curious of both sexes, were occa- 
sionally permitted access. Here, Isabella and her brother obtained leave 
to come and spend a portion of each day, on the same restrictions which 
had marked the little girl's first admission to the convent-garden. It was 
expressly stated that they were neither of them to pluck the flowers, 
touch the plants, or otherwise prove themselves unworthy the privilege 
which had been granted them. 

At first they played very happily here ; and made themselves bowers 
among the tall shrubs ; and formed fancied huts and caves among the 
large green tubs ; and imagined themselves wanderers on some remote 
sea-island, cast there by sudden shipwreck, or straying amid the palmated 



46 ISABELLA J 

branches and gigantic leaves of some far eastern solitude, thrown 
charmingly upon their own resources for habitation and food. They 
could dream themselves some brother and sister Sinbad roaming on un- 
known shores, expecting every moment to meet with the dread little old 
man of the sea, or to behold the sky darkened with the vast wings of the 
approaching roc. But soon, Claudio tired of this mimic scene. He one 
day leaned against the crag of crystal which was supposed to form one 
side of their hut, — but which was, in fact, the end window of the conser- 
vatory, — and looking through it at the portion of the convent-grounds 
which were visible thence, he said : — " I wish we could get leave to go 
into the garden ; it seems a fine large one. This is such a stupid, con- 
fined place ; there's no room for a good hearty game of play." 

" You liked it very much, I thought, when we first got permission to 
come here, didn't you ?" said Isabella. 

" Yes, yes ; at first ;" retorted he. 

" It isn't changed, is it ?" said Isabella, simply. 

" Changed ; no — of course not. ' 

' ; You thought it a delightful place then ; and showed me how we 
could turn it into a beautiful desert island of our own, you know ;" said 
she. 

" But one can't go on making-believe for ever ;" said he petulantly, 
climbing up on to the edge of a large green tub which supported a palm- 
tree, and which had represented the out-works of their hut, fenced against 
a probable attack of savages ; but which he now used to obtain a better 
view into the garden. " What a pity we mayn't play there — we could 
have such a famous race along that avenue ; couldn't we, Isabel ?" 

" Yes ;" said she. 

" I wish we might go there ;" said he, presently, with more earnest- 
ness than before. 

" I wish we might, since you wish it so much ;" said Isabella ; 
"but since we cannot, let's not think about it; don't look out at it any 
more, Claudio ;" said she, laughing ; " I think the sight of it only makes 
you long more to go." 

." Of course it does ;" said he, laughing too. 



THE VOTARESS. 47 

" Then jump down ; and don't think about the garden any more. 
See, here are some apples I brought with me, to stock our hut with. If 
the savages attack us, we shall want store of provision, while the siege 
lasts." 

" Pooh ! I can't nlay at huts, and islands, and savages, any more :" 
said he, jumping down, however; "I'm tired of that game, an't you, 
Isabel?" 

tl No, I can't say I am : but let's invent some new one, if you like." 

" What can one play at, in such a bit of a place as this is ?" said he, 
tossing one of the apples,, while he glanced somewhat contemptuously at 
the arena which he had before found spacious enough to serve as a whole 
tract of grove, plain, forest, rock, and valley. " If one might only pluck 
some flowers, or cut some branches, it would be something ; one might 
turn the hut into a cave, and make ourselves into the king and queen, 
with crowns on. I wonder why they won't let us have some of these 
flowers ; I'm sure there are plenty ; I've a great mind to gather a few ; 
they'd never be missed. What can they want with so manv ?" 

" They forbade us to take them, so we mustn't ; said Isabella quietly. 
" If you really wish for some, Claudio, I'll go and ask the prioress for 
them ; but we must not gather them ourselves." 

" Oh, it isn't so much for the flowers, that I care ; it's for the pleasure 
of plucking them just as I like. Flowers put up in a bunch, and given 
to you, are nothing ; but choosing them for yourself, and taking those 
you want, and no more, and doing so, just as the fancy bids you, and at 
the moment you feel inclined — that's a nosegay worth having !" 

His sister looked at him as if she did not comprehend him ; then 
he laughed at her wondering face ; and then she smiled too, saying: — 
M Oh, I see, you're joking; and trying to make me stare, with your odd 
whims." 

" Not I, indeed ; I really should like some of these flowers. I've a 
great mind to take some. Why shouldn't I V 

" We were allowed to come here, on condition we didn't touch the 
plants, or do any mischief;" answered she; "besides, you would only 
have the mortification of owning what you had done." 



4S 

" I don't see that ;" said he. " Why need I own it ? They would 
never know. There are too many blossoms here, for any to be missed." 

" Oh, Claudio !" exclaimed Isabella. 

" You needn't look so shocked, my little saint ;" said her brother, 
lightly laughing ; " I was not going really to touch them ; I'm too much 
obliged to the reverend lady-nuns, for their kindness to my young sister, 
to steal any of their property — though I must say I think they're rather 
dog-in-the-mangerish with their blossoms ; they neither use them them- 
selves, nor let others have the pleasure of gathering." 

'-' You mistake, dear Claudio ; the flowers are used in dressing the 
chapel-altar ; the garden supplies very few, and these are collected for 
the purpose." 

Claudio had been tossing and catching the apple all the while she 
spoke: he now threw it to his sister, exclaiming: — i{ Catch, Isabel!" 
She, pleased to find him willing to engage in a new sport, entered into 
this game of ball with spirit, and they went on playing some time, until 
suddenly the apple flew from Claudio's hand, and spun through one of 
the panes of the conservatory-window, smashing and scattering the frag- 
ments of glass. 

An affrighted exclamation burst from both children at once, as they 
heard the crash. 

" It's broken !" 

' : Whereabouts ?" said Claudio, after a pause, as he peered about, 
in vain trying to discover the fracture. " I don't see a single damaged 
pane any where, do you?" 

" No ;" said Isabella ; " but I am sure there must be one on that 
side ; I heard the blow of the apple, as if it went right through the 
window." 

Claudio crept up upon the bulwarks of the island hut, and looking 
closely at the window which formed the end of the conservatory near to 
which the tub stood, and in the direction whence the crash had been 
heard, he descried the broken pane among some neighbouring plants. 

" It is here," whispered he to his sister ; " I see it plainly ; but it is 
quite out of sight from where you stand ; the broad thick leaves of that 



THE VOTARESS. 49 

fan tree hide it completely." He stepped down ; and as he came towards 
where his sister stood, he looked back to see whether he could perceive 
that pane from any point he passed : but from none else than the one he 
had just occupied, among the tubs that were ranged near to the window, 
was the fracture visible. 

" It is quite hidden ; it will never be found out;" said he. glancing 
at Isabella. 

" But we can point out where to look for it : it will have to be 
mended directly, that the draught may not hurt the plants ;" said she. 
" Yes. how completely those fan leaves cover the spot ! It would never 
be guessed that there was a broken pane there!" 

' : Never ! Unless we told :" said Claudio, again looking at her. 

" Which of course we shall :" said she. returning his look with her 
clear open one. and with her usual quiet gravity of manner. 

" Why ' of course' ?" asked her brother. ' ; Why need we tell? They 
will never know of the accident, if we do not mention it." 

" We shall know it ; we shall know that there is a hole in the win- 
dow that lets in a stream of air bad for the plants : we shall know that 
it would be mended if they could see it. or if we told them where to look 
for it ;" said Isabella ; " therefore we ought to tell." 

4i But they will be displeased — they will forbid us the place — they 
will not allow us to come and play here any more :" said her brother. 

. Her face fell. " I shall be sorry for that. "Then it brightened again, 
as she added. " but even that will not be so bad — you had become tired 
of it you know, and found it too small for playing in." 

" But I shouldn't like to be turned out. for all that ;" said Claudio, 
" especially, on account of my own carelessness. Besides, I hate to have 
to go and tell of myself. I can't. Isabel ; I can't." 

" Then I will go for you :" said she. 

"What, tell tales of me?" he said hastily. 

" Not of you only :" said she. ' ; I will own that we broke the win- 
dow playing at ball together. I will myself make the confession to the 
prioress, and then you will be spared the pain of telling." 

" Yon are a generous little soul. Isabel ;" said her brother, giving 



GO 

her a hug ; " but it is not fair that you should take any blame in this 
matter, for it was I made the throw that broke the window, not you/' 

" We were both playing ; the unlucky hit might just as well have 
been mine, as yours ;" said she simply. 

" But why need it be owned at all V said he. - It will be sure to 
cost us dear ; we shall be punished ; we shall be dismissed from here in 
disgrace, besides having the shame of telling." 

" But it would be a worse shame to keep it a secret ; we should 
feel more disgraced coming here knowing we didn't deserve it j" said 
Isabella. 

" Do you think so ?" was his reply. 

" I am sure so ;" she rejoined. 

" To you, perhaps it would •" said her brother thoughtfully. 

" And to you, too, dear Claudio ;" she said. " I know you would 
never be comfortable or enjoy coming here any more, after having for- 
feited the right to do so, if the secret were ever so well kept." 

" You would feel this, my good little sister, because you are very 
scrupulous, very conscientious ; your friend, the nun, has taught you to 
be so ; I'm afraid we boys are not so particular ;" he said, with a half 
sigh, half smile. 

" But you boys have very high notions of honor, haven't you ?" 
said his sister. 

" Yes, yes. — of honor ;" replied he, with an emphasis on the word. 

"Well then, do you not think it would be dishonorable, mean, 
cowardly, base, to conceal a fault you had committed, merely to preserve 
a privilege that your fault, were it known, would forfeit?" said Isabella, 
with her usual calm eyes flashing, and her voice trembling with unwont- 
ed eagerness. 

" You are right, my dear little moralist." said he, smiling outright at 
her warmth ; " and I will do as you would have me — as somehow you 
always make me do ; I suppose it is, because I know that you are better 
than my scapegrace self. But I would not have you one jot less good, 
less scrupulous, less conscientious than you are, Isabel mine. Who 
knows ? your better genius may be my good one, some day or other. 



THE VOTARESS. 51 

and help to save me from any pickle that may befal your less worthy 
brother. Come, if it must be so, let's at once go and make our con- 
fession ; best get it over at once. Which is the way to the convent 
parlour, where we may have our formidable interview with the prioress?" 

"She is not formidable;" said his sister, laughing; "reverend mother 
is one of the pleasantest, kindest, most cheerful women you ever beheld. 
I love her dearly." 

" What, better than sister Aloysia ?" 

"Than sister Aloysia? 0, I love her more than any body in the 
world — except perhaps. " She stopped ; and looked with an affec- 
tionate smile in Claudio's face. 

" Yes. yes ;" said he, returning it proudly, with one equally fond ; 
" Isabel will always keep a warm corner in her heart for her naughty 
scapegrace brother." 

"Who calls him so, but his own modesty?" said she. " Not Isabel; 
who knows him for the best, the most loving of brothers." 

Time passed ; and found the tenor of Isabella's daily life unaltered. 
Her father's profession still detained him absent from Vienna and his 
children. Madame Leerheim's house was, as before, their appointed 
home; Claudio remained at college; while Isabella had masters, belong- 
ing to the school which was part of the convent establishment, at the 
same time deriving her principal instruction, — her moral culture — from 
the gentle nun, sister Aloysia. 

Once, while yet a very young girl, Isabella happened to be taking a 
walk, attended by Bertha. A crowd approached. It proved to be some 
soldiers, who were conducting to prison a Bohemian lad, suspected of 
having murdered a young companion. The deed had not been brought 
home to him, but the circumstances in which the body had been found, 
were thought so conclusive against this lad, that he was arrested and 
brought to Vienna to await his trial. There was a train of idlers accom- 
panying the military and their prisoner, hooting, and hissing, and reviling 
him, as he passed along. He was bound, and led between two soldiers ; 
his wild hair hung loose and dishe\elled over his eyes, which now and 



52 ISABELLA ; 

then gleamed forth savage glances of anger and confusion towards the 
pitiless mob. Now and then he shook the disordered locks back, with a 
toss of his head. — for his hands being bound behind him. he could not 
lift them to his face.— as if he were about to fling some bitter retort at 
his tormentors ; but relapsing into dogged sullenness, he allowed the 
hair to fall once more over his brow — though it ill served to hide his 
flushed cheeks and scowling glances. 

" I'm glad they've caught the young ruffian !" ejaculated mistress 
Bertha. 

" Glad !" echoed Isabella. 

u Yes. glad, miss ; I'm sure it was he." And then the damsel 
recounted what she had heard of his suspected crime. 

" But how can you be sure, Bertha, that it was he who did the 
murder ? Even they who took him. are not sure ;" said Isabella. 

" 0, I'm sure ; I'm quite sure;" said the damsel. " Look at him, 
miss ; only look at him ! There's a murdering face for you, clear 
enough. Only look at it !" 

"But it seems to distress him, to be looked at;" replied Isabella. 
" See how he shrinks from being stared at, as they are all doing." 

Just then, the procession halted; the officer who conducted the 
party, stopped to let his horse drink, at a fountain that stood there ; 
the men grounded arms, and took a few moments' rest after their long 
march ; for they had captured the lad at a spot some miles distance. 
During this pause, the Bohemian remained motionless ; only the wrath- 
darting eyes, the dilating nostrils, and the heaving chest, bore witness to 
his agitation. He stood panting, dusty, with bloodshot eyes, parched 
tongue, and lips apart, looking like a goaded animal, at bay. 

As he stood thus, only a few paces from the doorway, where Isabella 
and her attendant had taken refuge, till the crowd should have passed, 
the kerchief that hung closely round the lad's neck, became entirely 
detached and fell to the ground. The thoughtless crowd laughed, in 
derision at the convulsive movement with which the bound arms twitched, 
as if they would have made an effort to recover the fallen handkerchief; 
but the laugh had not died away, when Isabella stepped forward, and in 



THE VOTARESS. 53 

her own quiet grave manner, took it from the ground, and placed it in the 
lad's jacket-pocket. 

The restless eye gleamed — but with another expression then : a look 
of surprise, of awe, of gratitude, of almost tenderness, dwelt sadly in 
them, in place of the ire that sparkled there before, as they fell upon 
the gentle benificence at his side. 

He had scarcely endeavoured to mutter hoarsely and huskily : — ■ 
" Thanks !" — when the word was given to move on, and the procession 
resumed its way. 

'•Oood gracious, miss Bella!" said the damsel, when she had 
regained her young lady's side. " How could you pick up that filthy 
rag of a handkerchief! How could you bring yourself to touch it?'' 

- Nobody else took it up for him ; he could not lift it for himself :'' 
said Isabella. 

' ; Then there it might have lain, for me, I'm sure ;" said Bertha ; " I. 
should as soon have thought of touching a toad, as a murderer's necker- 
chief A hempen cravat's the only one I'd think of helping him to. I 
warrant him." 

Isabella did not answer any farther .; but next morning, she asked 
her friend the nuu, how it was that no one but herself in all that crowd 
of people, had seemed to think of assisting one so helpless and unhappy 
as this boy prisoner. 

" They believed him to be guilty as well as unhappy ;" was the nun's 
reply. 

'• They could not be sure that he was guilty — that he had committed 
murder :" said Isabella : " for Bertha told me that his crime had not 
been proved. Ought they to have treated him as a wicked wretch, un- 
worthy of help, until they were quite certain he was not as innocent as 
they?" 

" Crowds seldom consider ; mobs rarely deal justly :" said the nun. 

" But supposing that he were really guiltless of the deed imputed 
to him." said Isabella, " this youth would in fact have been most 
cruelly injured, instead of deserving to be treated with slight and 
scorn ; for he would then have been dragged all those miles, bound and 



54 ISABELLA ; 

guarded, treated as a prisoner, held up as a show and a gaze, on a false 
charge. — on a mere mistake of his accusers. He would have been sub- 
jected to suffering, to insult, which no after-clearing of his innocence 
could redress. They could not make him unsuffer what he had suffered." 

After a pause, Isabella resumed : — •'• I wonder whether this Bohemian 
lad — Barnardine, Bertha said his name was, — really did kill his com- 
panion. He seemed such a boy, to have done so great a crime. Do you 
think he's guilty?" 

" I have no means of judging, my child ;" said the nun. " The best 
I can hope for him, is, that those who have, will use them quickly, to the 
end that his innocence, if he be innocent, may be established. Should 
his trial be delayed, all the evils of exposure to vicious example, ^o 
prison immoralit} T . to dungeon idleness, recklessness, and despondency, 
will then be his allotted portion — and it would be scarce less than a 
miracle should he escape their influence. He will then be made what 
he is now only believed. — a criminal. He will be hardened, bronzed 
agaiust all better feeling. The heart that now softens, the young eye 
that now melts, beneath the look of kindness and of sympathy, and the 
helping hand of beneficence, will then know no sense of virtue. Alike 
too late will then be counsel, assistance, or even correction; and the boy 
Barnardine, who might haply have been reclaimed, will be the veteran 
villain, equally unfit to be spared, or to be condemned to death." 

" But do you think his trial will be delayed ?" asked Isabella. 

•• I know not ; but I fear it ;" replied sister Aloysia. ; - Our young 
duke, Vincentio, is a retired man ; a scholar, rather than a governor ; 
more devoted to a student's leisure, than to a statesman's jurisdiction ; 
it is to be dreaded he may be more contemplative than active ; more 
given to reflection, than to exercise of sway ; more bent on storing 
knowledge, than on learning to rule ; and this is hardly fitting in a 
prince who has the weal and moral condition of his subjects committed 
to his care. However, Vincentio is virtuous, well-disposed, learned, 
pious. Let us hope all good from his reign." 

As Isabella advanced in girlhood, her imaginativeness, her childish 



THE VOTARESS. 55 

innocence, became scarcely less a part of her nature ; but the)' took the 
form of ideality, purity, aud a refinement of soul that bade her seek com- 
munion with things above this world. Her habitual mood was contem 
plat ion : her happiness, religion. She was reflective, devout, serene in 
faith : fervent in hope. She was gentle, yet dignified : candid, yet femi- 
ninely reserved. She had still that look of spirituality, which distin- 
guished her as a child. She seemed surrounded by an atmosphere of 
holiness aud sanctity, which rejected assimilation with gross materiality. 
Her face was as if an unsound thought could never find entrance among 
those which gave expression to its fair open truth. Her words, her ges- 
tures, all the harmonious lines that composed her gracious form, were 
instinct with the charm of modesty. Her very garments appeared to 
have a property of cleanness and purity, as if no soil or blemish could at- 
tach to them. White-robed, spotless, she looked, and moved, a virgin 
saint. 

Yet with all this native immaculacy, she was neither intolerant nor 
uncharitable with regard to sin in others. In the first place she was 
slow to conceive evil: and when she did discover its existence, it filled 
her with pity rather than resentment for the guilty. She felt compassion 
for those who fell, and regarded them rather as victims than as culprits, 
when their sins were the result of ignorance, helplessness, or adverse cir- 
cumstances ; and she was ever ready to attribute sin to any of these 
causes, until she had received demonstration that it arose from voluntary 
error. ■ It seemed to her too improbable that sin could be a selected por- 
tion. It was only when convinced that degradation was wilfully incurred, 
that vice was sought, that crime was spontaneously committed, that her 
indignation was aroused. Then that latent warmth of disposition. — against 
which sister Aloysia had warned her, lest it should transgress due 
bounds. — would lead her, into an energy of expression, a heat of lan- 
guage, compounded of generous feeling and disdain : of anger at the per- 
verseness, of contempt at the folly, of those who could so madly choose. 
It was rarely that such occasions presented themselves; but when they 
did, it was startling to hear one so apparently calm, pour forth such pas- 
sionate declamation. Her reflective habits, her mode of education, natu- 



56 

rally induced a practice of argument; and she was accustomed to speak 
her thoughts in that manner, gaining either refutal or confirmation from 
the replies she received. 

Some years had elapsed since the Bohemian lad's imprisonment on 
suspicion of murder; when Bertha happened to mention something she 
had heard, which forcibly revived the circumstance in Isabella's recollec- 
tion. When she next met the nun, she reminded her of what had then 
been their surmises respecting the too probable result of prolonged im- 
prisonment should his trial be delayed. 

"It is as you predicted, sister Aloysia ; the wretched man's inno- 
cence or guilt has never been rightly ascertained ; his case has never had 
strict examination ; some say, he has been sentenced, but reprieved, from 
time to time, at the instance of benevolent persons, who interfered for 
him. Be that as it may, his incarceration has endured all this time, and 
I hear that he is now so utter a reprobate, that there is no trace of the 
touches of good — all wild as they were — which formerly distinguished 
him. When he first entered the prison, he was furious at being de- 
prived of his liberty ; he would rave at his accusers, he would storm at 
his jailers ; but he had moments of savage gaiety, he would sing snatches 
of the national airs of his country, he would speak of his little sister 
Tonerl, and he would express a longing to see her. and to return with 
her to their native Bohemia. But year after year passed ; his thoughts 
of home faded, — lost their softening influence ; he yielded to the profli- 
gate example, the loose companionship, the vicious influence, ever too 
surely afforded by a prison, and is now so sunk in obduracy, that even 
the provost of the prison (a kind-hearted man. Bertha says. — he is a re- 
lation of hers.) has lost all concern for him ; he says he is such a mere 
lump of brutality — such ' a thorough jail-bird,' is his word. But then, 
how was he made so ? By what fault of neglect was he converted from a 
man into an animal? How came it, that instead of fostering, until 
they burned brightly, the few sparks of good, latent in his nature, they 
were suffered to be smothered, extinguished, by the unwholesome air of 
a dungeon ? Why should it be, that the scanty seeds of virtue which 
might have been found, and brought, in time, to bear blossom and fruit, 



THE VOTARESS. 



should have been, instead, buried in the uncongenial soil of an under- 
ground cell, so that none but rank and poisonous weeds should be the 
produce ? To make of a youth, who might have been reformed into a 
worth}- subject, a mere callous, worse-than-useless member of society, is 
surely an act of impolicy as well as injustice." 

- And this is not the whole of the mischief, in the present instance ;" 
continued Isabella; "his poor young sister, Antonia — ' pretty Tonerl,' 
as he called her, — without parents, deprived of her brother's protection. 
fell into evil ways : went astray, Bertha says ; was deserted : and in a fit 
of grief and despair, drowned herself !" 

Sister Aloysia breathed a pious ejaculation — part horror, part inter- 
cession, — for the soul of this second victim of man's neglectful error. 

After a pause, Isabella repeated musingly : — " the poor young thing 
'went astray.' Bertha said. ; No brother to protect her !' From what, 
I wonder?" 

The good nun took this opportunity of giving Isabella the explana- 
tion she had formerly promised, when she should be older and fitter to 
comprehend her meaning. She gently revealed to her, that by an in- 
scrutable ordination of the Almighty, sin and evil were permitted to 
exist; she spoke to her of the degradation of vice, of the misery of 
crime ; she told her of the many ways in which frail humanity is beset ; 
of the passions which urge, of the temptations which allure ; she spoke of 
those who fall by weakness of heart, as well as by strength of inclina- 
tion ; of those who are misled by ill counsellors, betrayed by false or 
pretended friends, as well as those who only listen to the inward prompt- 
ings of bad'propensity : she showed how the native greater weakness of 
women, both in frame and in heart, rendered them peculiarly liable to 
fall away from virtue, and to yield to vice ; and that the very softness 
and flexibility of their natures, though originally disposing them to good, 
yet also tended to make them easier victims to sinister influence. She 
then unveiled to her. — as a tender mother might do. — how the especial 
virtue, esteemed the crown of women, was fair chastity; how it behoved 
them to preserve that crown untarnished ; how it was a duty to watch 
diligently their own hearts, lest solicitation from thence should join with 



58 ISABELLA ; 

that they might meet elsewhere, to betray them ; how it was a glory and 
a grace to live unsullied ; how it was irremediable shame and dishonor 
to fall. 

' : But surely, where the glory is so great, on the one hand, and the 
penalty so severe on the other," said Isabella, " the wonder is, that 
women should ever yield, — should ever fall. Well may the sex be 
called weak. — foolish, — -frail, if they are so untrue to their own best 
interests." 

' ; Thus it appears to you, on the first glance. But consider. How 
many are there, who have any one to represent to them their true best 
interest ? How many are there, who have the aiding strength of mo- 
rality and religion ? How many poor girls are taught even simple right 
from wrong? Too few, I fear. Remember, therefore, — you, who are a 
lady by birth, secluded by position, and one who by circumstance has 
been made acquainted with the full value and privilege of keeping 
pure, body and soul,— -remember, I say, to be lenient when you judge of 
error among the fallen of your sex. Be strict to your own slightest de- 
viation from rectitude; be charitable to the utmost backsliding of your 
guilty sisterhood. That rigid adherence to virtue, which in you, is mere 
duty, and scarcely more than a selfish regard to your own advantage, is 
in them a high merit, and too frequently the price of heroic self denial, 
of sublimest sacrifice." 

" Sacrifice !" said Isabella. " Surely, for highest gain." 

" Ay, sacrifice ;" replied the nun. " Sacrifice for highest gain, it is 
true — -yet still sacrifice. What should you know, my dear child, you, 
enclosed within a sanctuary of peace, know of the temptations, the almost 
irresistible temptations, of the daily world ? How should you rightly 
estimate the promptings of passion — you, who have had your feelings 
regulated, your affections duly filled, your principles confirmed ? How 
may you judge of the solicitations of a generous and compassionate heart, 
more ready to favor another than itself — you, who have never been ex- 
posed to lawless pleadings, either from your own unguided heart, or from 
the still more dangerous voice of one you would fain oblige? What idea 
can you form of the whisperings of vanity, the thoughts of a girl, who 



THE VOTARESS. 59 

sees herself in rags, while others are becomingly decked,— you. who have 
always had ladylike attire supplied for your wear. What are you to 
guess of the urgency of hunger. — you. who have your daily meals pro- 
vided, and have never known the sting of more than a few hours' sharp- 
ened appetite, or a delayed unquenching of thirst? Think of these 
things, in their true force. — put yourself in the place of a poor young 
creature, day by day surrounded and beset by such influences, and then 
judge of her fall ; then say, whether it be not almost a miracle, if she 
maintain her integrity." 

" A miracle, indeed !" whispered Isabella. 

" Holy mother forbid, my dearest child." said the nun, "that I should 
for one instant seek to dethrone the sacred image of Chastity from the 
exaltation she occupies in your thought, or help to diminish your sense 
of the necessity firmly to abide by her laws, or in any way lessen your 
reverence for those who do hold fast by Virtue , all I would do is to 
teach you commiseration for those so unhappy as to abandon her service, 
to forfeit her privileges, to exchange her happiness, for the misery of 
Vice." 

"Per Tonerl! Poor Nanni !" exclaimed Isabella, when the nun had 
concluded : " I comprehend the mystery of your stories now ; I have 
learned to know and to pity the truth of your condition ! I understand 
your own errors, as well as those of others towards you ! I see the 
reason of your grief, your despair !" 

Letters, about this time, from Isabella's father, brought news of a 
much regretted loss he had sustained, in the death of a dear friend of 
his, a companion-in-arms, a renowned brother soldier. He lamented 
his fate the more, inasmuch as it had not occurred as the friends could 
have hoped— on the battle-field. 

" Had my noble friend, Frederick, met his death, sword in hand, in 
the service of his country, his fate had hardly been to be deplored f 
thus ran the letter ; " it would have been but that end which all brave 
soldiers covet. But he has sailed with his men. in pursuit of that 
scourge of the seas, the famous pirate. Kagozine : and Heaven, in its 



60 



ISABELLA J 



mysterious wisdom, saw fit to send, instead of his hoped-for prey, a 
violent storm, which wrecked the ship, and sent my valiant friend to a 
watery grave. With him, in the vessel, was all his hoarded pay, the 
wealth he had acquired during many years' devotion to his prince and 
country. Several brilliant exploits and honorable achievements had 
made this wealth considerable, and the greater portion was intended, I 
know, for the dower of his sister, Mariana. From certain circumstances 
confided to me by my friend respecting this virtuous young lady, and 
the nobleman to whom she is betrothed, I fear the loss of her beloved 
brother, is not the only consequence she will have to bewail from this 
fatal shipwreck. If Heaven grant me life and opportunity to return, I 
will regard this unhappy lady as my especial charge ; and her fortunes 
shall be as much my care as those of my own children. From all I 
learn concerning the heart and mind of my Claudio and Isabella, I have 
no fear but that they will join me in my every wish to serve one whom 
I regard in the light of a sacred bequest from my dear lost friend, the 
noble Frederick." 

Isabella was on her way to the nun, to show her this letter, and she 
was pondering on its contents, and beseeching Heaven to grant her 
prayer for her father's speedy release from his duties, that he might 
return to Vienna, and learn to love his children in person, as well as he 
seemed inclined to love them on report, when she suddenly felt some one 
touch her timidly on the arm, and turning, she saw a woman at her 
side, whom she at first did not recognize, but whom, after a moment, she 
remembered once to have seen walking with Nanni on the Prater, when 
she had met her there with Madame Leerheim. 

" I beg your pardon, miss ;" said the woman, ' : but you seemed so 
deep in thought, I could not get you to notice me ; so I made bold 
to " she glanced at the elbow she had touched 

" What have you to tell me ? Aught of poor Nanni ? Speak ; tell 
me !" said Isabella earnestly. 

" Poor Nanni, indeed ! Well may you call her so. She is dying, 
poor wench, — and frightfully ; 0, how frightfully !" 

The woman broke off with a sob, and turned away. 



THE VOTARESS. 6l 

"Dying! Where? Lead me to her;" said Isabella. 

' ; Then you will go to her, will you?" said the woman, turning again 
quickly to Isabella. " That is her hope. She says she dares ask you to 
come and see her now, as she is dying: many and many's the time she 
has crept here o'uights. to see you ; at least to catch a glimpse of your 
window, and fancy she watched you sleeping. A good heart, she has, 
poor wench, with all her odd fancies ; — but we're queer creatures, we 
women ; most of us." The woman paused, and seemed to be half talking 
to herself. 

-But Nanni — Xanni — dying, you say!" repeated Isabella. 

" Yes she's dying, sure enough — and says it's only because she's so 
surely dying, that she ventures to ask you to come and see her. Death 
makes all even; it makes the good forget to despise the wicked — the rich 
to neglect the poor. Coffins are sometimes not grudged, where timely 
help would have been better. But," continued the woman, looking up 
again from the dreamy way in which she ever and anon looked down 
and muttered to herself, ; - if you come, as yon say you will, it must be 
soon, for she won't last long." 

The woman shuddered, and then added; "}'ou must prepare your 
tender heart — Xanni says you have a tender heart — and I see you have 
—for a shock. Her sufferings are frightful, poor wench : and now that 
she has once owned her state, she don't mind letting us see her writhe in 
torture, or hear her scream ; which before, she managed to keep from 
doing, that we mightn't find her out. and have a doctor." 

Isabella held her breath, that she might speak calmly,*and not in- 
crease the woman's agitation (which alternated with the dreamy way her 
manner assumed between whiles) so as to prevent her from explaining 
herself intelligibly ; and then said : — " "What do you mean by ' her 
state'?" 

The woman told her that the blow which Nanni received from the 
horse's hoof had been the original cause of her present condition. That, 
at first, the pain had been such as to be unnoticeable. unless the bruised 
part were touched ; that it had gone on, however, from year to year, 
growing worse and worse, and had at length produced cancer, which had 



62 ISABELLA J 

been concealed, until incurable. That from some unaccountable whim. 
Nanni had persevered in keeping the secret of her ailment, but that she 
was unaccountable and whimsical altogether. 

There was a singular mixture of sympathy and vexation in this 
woman's manner, as she spoke of Nanni. She seemed angry with her, 
and sorry for her. at the same time; and as if she would fain have not 
felt so deeply for her as she did. and yet could not help it. 

'• She set her heart upon seeing you. and I couldn't refuse her. poor 
wench, when she begged me to fetch you :" said the woman in conclu- 
sion ; " I shall comfort her by carrying word back that you've promised 
to come." 

'• I shall not fail :" said Isabella. :: Tell poor Nanni that I shall be 
with her not long after your return." 

The woman, wiping her eyes on her shawl, turned away : and Isabella 
resumed her way to the convent : for she determined to see sister Aloysia 
before she went to Nanni. remembering her promise, that she would not 
go to her house again without the nun's permission. She made no 
doubt of obtaining it. when she remembered the deed of mere charity 
which her visit now involved : and she was right. The good nun at 
once bade her go ; sending a lay-sister with her. to carry a basket of 
necessaries and comforts for the sufferer. 

They reached the suburbs ; and on tapping at the door of the small 
low-roofed house, it was opened by the woman who had brought Nanni's 
message to Isabella. She put her finger on her lips, as they entered, 
and whispered: — "The poor wench sleeps: I found her in a happier 
way on my return, than when I left her : the pain's suddenly gone — no 
more of those dreadful screams and writhings — she's quiet now- — and 
able to sleep." 

'•Best not disturb her:" said Isabella, in the same tone: and she 
proceeded to make her arrangements for staying to watch by Nanni's 
bedside, dismissing the lay-sister, telling her she would send and let her 
know if any decided change took place, which should require assistance. 
She then, thanking the woman who had hitherto nursed Nanni, for her 
kind care of their poor friend, begged her to take some repose, which 
she was sure she must need, after so much fatigue and anxietv 



THE VOTARESS. 63 

<{ Enough of them — to be sure :" said the woman ; " but I had the 
means of bearing them. Here's what helps us to bear even worse things 
than fatigue and anxiety," said she, still in a whisper, but with the 
agitation which occasionally marked her manner, when it did not sub- 
side into that inert kind of dreaminess before alluded to ; and, as she 
spoke, she filled herself out a glass of some sort of ardent spirit, from a 
bottle that stood on the table. 

'• Besides. I felt that anything I could bear or do for her, she would 
have clone fifty times over for me ;" added the woman, nodding her head 
towards the bed where Nanni lay; " she had alwa3 T s a good heart, poor 
wench." 

And the woman tossed off the liquor at a gulp. 

"Do you not fear that it may do you more harm than good?" asked 
Isabella. :: Do you not fear that though it helps you to bear many 
painful things, yet that it brings a pain and destruction of its own?" 

The woman turned quickly, looking her in the face, and with an 
almost fierceness of manner, scarce the less vehement for the whisper 
she still maintained in consideration of the sleeper's presence, said : — 
"Do I not fear it? No. Do I not know it? Yes. I know that it 
brings old age while a woman is still young — that it sets wrinkles, where 
smiles should be — that it digs lines instead of dimples — that it turns 
cheek-roses to saffron — that it dulls the eye. withers the skin, palsies 
the hand : that it poisons the blood, and strikes decrepitude into young 
bones : that it is assured anl early death. But it is palsied age encoun- 
tered boldly— it is death met blindfold. It gives us courage to hug our 
ruin : and its fire. — consuming though it be. — lights and warms us on 
our wav. and gives us temporary life while leading to the grave. It is 
the candle to the fluttering moth — radiant destruction. Like the wan- 
dering vapours that flit by night in burial-grounds, it lures us on. till 
we plunge headlong and unheeding into yawning churchyard mould. 
We reach the brink unthinkingly, half bewildered, half dazzled : the 
glare has thrown our clanger into shadow, and it is worth while to have 
it kept out of sight as long as possible — until the last inevitable moment. 
For it must come — it must, it must." 



64 ISABELLA ; 

As the woman uttered the last words in her slow, musing, abstracted 
manner, her eyes rested upon the bed of the dying Nanni. 

Isabella said softly : — ;: Since death must come, is there not a better 
courage to meet it with, than the one you choose? Why keep it out of 
sight, because it is inevitable? Why not rather learn to seek it as a 
friend, than be cheated towards it as an unavoidable enemy ?" 

" Too late ! too late !" muttered the woman, with her eyes still fixed 
in the same direction ; while Isabella thought how she had heard those 
very words — those fatally comprehensive words — uttered by her whom 
they watched. 

Presently the woman roused herself; went towards the table, poured 
out another glass of spirit, swallowed it, and then saying : — " I will seek 
the rest you bid me. Should you want anything, call; we shall hear 
you, some of us. from the large house ; this is Nanni's own cottage ; I'll 
leave you here for the present, since you're so good as to stay with her ;" 
she went out, closing the door softly behind her. 

Nanni's slumber lasted uninterruptedly for some hours. Mortifica- 
tion had come on ; and, freed from pain, she was able to sleep. 

She awoke refreshed ; and uttered her companion's name, — the 
woman who had tended her during her illness. 

" Dear Nanni, I am here to take care of you, now; you will be 
pleased to have me for your nurse, will you not?" said the gentle voice 
of Isabella. 

" And so you are come, angel that you are ! I knew you would !" 
The dying girl fixed her eyes on Isabella's face, with a look of full con- 
tent. :: You are the same pure angel, that you looked to me when a 
child ! You were always, more like a spirit of light and goodness, than 
a mere mortal creature, like — like ourselves ;" — and the voice faltered, 
and the look of content left the countenance, and the old trouble cast its 
shadow there. 

She turned her head feebly away, and sighed, and said . — " You are 
come — because your good heart bade } t ou come — and because it suspected 
nothing that should keep you away — but perhaps, if you knew -" 

" I know all ;" was Isabella's quiet reply. 



THE VOTARESS. 65 

Nanni's head turned more quickly now. — as quickly as her weakness 
would allow. — towards Isabella. Fixing her eyes upon her, she repeated 
emphatically, "you know all?" 

Isabella, without averting her own, bowed assent. 

" You know what has been my reprobate way of life ? — what has been 
my error — my fall? You know what a thing of shame and sin I am? 
you know what I, indeed, am ?" 

« I do." 

" It is best thus ;" said Nanni, after covering her face with her hand 
in silence, for a few moments ; '■ the shame and pain of having you know 
it. is made up for by having now nothing to conceal, and by the comfort 
of finding that you still have love enough for poor Nanni, to bid you 
come, spite of what you know her to be." 

" It was only your own delicacy and consideration for me, that kept 
me from you so long, dear Nanni ;" said Isabella. 

'• Our own frailty sets a barrier between ourselves and the innocent 
and good : and it is fitting we should bear the penalty, by not seeking 
to transgress the limit, or to covet their sympathy and society ;" said 
Nanni. " It is seldom, indeed, that the wish exists, on either side ; gene- 
rally, we outcasts are as little anxious to associate with the virtuous, as 
they are with us ; but it is perhaps my misfortune, that while my errors 
depraved, they never, hardened me." 

"•Do not say so. Nanni :" said Isabella ; " so long as one softening 
regret, one remorseful emotion remains, to touch the heart, depend on it, 
that heart is never wholly lost to good It is callousness, it is indiffer- 
ence in evil courses, that are the bane of all redemption from them." 

" You comfort me : — I knew you would — you always did — the mere 
sight of you from the first, seemed to do my sore heart good. But I 
could not give myself that comfort at the risk of harm to you. And 
yet. perhaps., I might. Your pure soul would have been as little injured 
by contact with vice and pollution, — it would have as surely shrunk from 
them, as crystal water refuses to mingle with grease and filth. Still, 
why subject you to the disgust and heart-sickness of even knowing such 
things to exist. No, no, I dared not be so selfish. Only now, now, that 



66 ISABELLA J 

I am surely dying, I can beseech the comfort of your presence : and may 
Heaven reward you for granting it to me." 

"You are easier now. dear Nanni, are you not? The pain seems 
abated, from what I learned of your sufferings before I came. You may 
recover still," said Isabella. 

Nanni shook her head. " I know what this is ; it is no healing calm ; 
it is the calm of coming death — but I bless it, since it gives me to feel 
fully the comfort of having you near ; at the same time that it spares 
you from witnessing throes you could not relieve " 

Three or four women now entered the cottage, asking if they could 
do aught for the service of their dying companion ; but Nanni thanked 
them ; told them the young lady they saw, had come purposely from a 
convent to nurse her, as a work of charity and pious humility, and would 
therefore take their place in the kind attendance they had hitherto given 
her. She again thanked them heartily, bade them a sad farewell, and 
said she hoped soon to be at rest. 

One of the young women, — their eyes all bore witness that they were 
much affected. — stooped towards Nanni, and sobbed out a few words that 
reached Isabella's ear. 

' ; Mrs. Overdone bade me say, Nanni, that she hoped you'd forgive 
her for not coming to you, but that it made her miserable to see you 
suffer so, and couldn't help you at all ; and she hoped, if you were so 
bad that you must die, that you'd forgive her for other things worse than 
not coming to see you ; that perhaps it would have been better if you'd 
never seen her — but that at any rate, she hoped you'd forgive her." 

" I forgive her all ! Tell her so from me. Good-bye !" 

The young women went away, crying ; and as the cottage-door closed 
behind them. Nanni said : — " they've been kind and good to me ; they 
don't want for kindness, poor souls, in their way ; it is their having had 
kind hearts, too kind and too tender hearts once, that has been mostly 
the cause of their being what they are. God knows !" 

" You sent a message of forgiveness to some one — to her — that terri- 
ble woman — I happened to see her once — who I suppose was the cause 
of your misery. Nanni, was she?" 



THE VOTARESS. 67 

il Not the cause — not the sole cause ; one of the causes, she certainly 
was. But it was my own fatal weakness, joined to my still more fatal 
ignorance. — for it was that which gave my weakness power to work my 
downfall. — which originally lost me. It is too long a tale for me now 
to tell — too sad a tale for you to hear — one that you need not its warn- 
ing to encounter the pain of hearing — and one that is too common, alas, 
in its melancholy truth." 

" You did well and generously to forgive even that terrible woman, 
one cause, though she was. of your fate ;" said Isabella. " You cannot, 
therefore, still regret having preserved your heart unhardened, since it 
leaves you capable of generosity sufficient to send your pardon even to 
such a being." 

" She is indeed ' a terrible woman,' " muttered Nanni, with a shud- 
der ; " and to your innocent eyes she must appear a very monster of 
hideousness and abomination ; but even that woman has some touches of 
good in her, that would amaze those who know not how difficult it is 
for even wickedness and sin utterly to deface the divine image origi- 
nally stamped on poor humanity. I have known that woman, in a time 
of dearth, forego a meal of her own that she might bestow it on a starving 
child : I have known her make many sacrifices of personal comfort — no 
slight self-denial on the part of a woman like her — that she might main- 
tain a little ricketty bantling, deserted by its parents : I have known her 
ever pitiful towards the orphaned and homeless child; for children are 
her passion, — the love and sympathy she feels for childhood is her saving 
grace — her single point of genuine feeling and goodness. That is her 
one redeeming particular. — in all else she is, truly, a ' terrible woman.' 
She has been a '• terrible woman' to me." 

c; Yet your forgave her ; your unhardened heart forgave her ;" re- 
peated Isabella. 

" I forgave her, as I could hope myself to be forgiven ;" sighed Nanni. 
" Hope, did I say 1 No hope for such as I !" 

" Hope of forgiveness ; ay, good hope ;" said Isabella. " That heart, 
which not only abhors and repents its own sin, but can also find pardon 
for those who have sinned against itself, may not lose hope. Was it not 



68 ISABELLA j 

given to the unhappy sinner of old, to hear those benign words, ' her sh;g 
which are many, are forgiven V Let me tell you of some of these blessed 
promise-words, dear Nanni. Let them carry their own comfort and 
strength to your drooping courage. Let your heart — still in its trem- 
bling humility ' an honest and good heart, having heard the word, keep 
it, and bring forth fruit with patience.'" 

Through the watches of the night, Isabella kept faithful vigil by 
Nanni's bed-side. The sufferer had sunk into rest, calmed and composed 
by the Serene trust in Almighty mercy, which her gentle nurse had 
sought to inspire ; but just as the grey dawn crept through the checked 
curtains of the cottage-window, Isabella perceived that that rest would 
never again be broken. Slumber had subsided into death ; and Nanni's 
cares were over. 

Isabella arose ; composed the limbs, and disposed all smoothly and 
reverently around the poor- frail tenement of clay ; then knelt, praying 
long and fervently for the erring spirit now fled to meet its fiat for eter- 
nity. She was still thus lowly and earnestly pleading, when the lay-sis- 
ter softly opened the door of the cottage. 

"The poor thing is dead, is she?" whispered the nun, as Isabella arose 
from her knees. "I knew she could not survive many hours ; so as soon 
as matins were finished, I came to see if all were over, and to fetch you 
home." 

Some of the women from the neighbouring house were summoned ; and 
then Isabella, and the lay-sister took their way back to the convent. As 
they passed through the empty streets, quite deserted and solitary at that 
early morning hour, the sky chill and grey before the rising of the sun 
and her thoughts still absorbed in the mournful story and scene which 
had so lately occupied her. Isabella's heart sank in dejection. She felt 
utterly depressed, saddened ; life looked black before her ; a sombre veil 
seemed to hang upon the coming years : a dark foreboding seized hen 
despite her better sense; and she could scarcely reason herself out of a 
vague but powerful presentiment of calamity and coming evil. She 
Btrove resolutely against this weakness — for such she felt it to be — and 



THE VOTARESS. » 69 

partly succeeded in throwing it off; but still, temptation, sin, destruction, 
seemed about her path, and, dimly hovering, to cast their shadows 
athwart her future course. 

Presently, a party of military approached, leading a heavily-ironed 
man. whom they were conducting to prison. As Isabella's eyes fell upon 
the culprit, she was struck by the singular resemblance he bore to her 
brother Claudio. The height, age. and general appearance were very 
like : and the light brown color of the hair and beard were precisely 
similar. She started, as the thought crossed her mind : — " Can it be 
my brother, that the impending ill threatens? Heaven shield my 
Claudio!" 

Her companion, whose retired life as a nun. did not prevent her 
taking a lingering interest in mundane aifairs, and whose profession as 
a lay-sister permitted her still to preserve sufficient communication with 
the world to admit of her satisfying her inquisitive turn, asked one of 
the guard, who was the criminal they were leading to prison ; and she 
learned that it was Rugozine. the noted pirate. 

" Even such a perverted being as this, might my brother have be- 
come had he early been exposed to the adverse influences, the mistaken 
teaching which have doubtless been this man's portion in his youth ;" 
thought Isabella. ' ; Courage and manly daring, made cruelty and rapine ; 
ambition and a thirst for glorious achievement, made lawless plunder 
and -reckless deeds: justice, consideration, devotion in the cause of 
humanity, made slaughter and treachery to his fellow-creatures, as his 
prey, rather than his brethren. A life misspent, and an ignominious 
death, are the sum of this man's history: and such might have been my 
brother's lot ! Mine too. might have been no better than Nanni's, had 
I had only such instruction as the world awards to the lowly-born, instead 
of helping them to stem the tide of hostile circumstances which natu- 
rally surround them. Are there no means of averting this sore evil? 
Must a particular portion of humanity be acquiescently doomed to cer- 
tain sin. as well as poverty ? To starvation of soul as well as body ? 
Can the intellect of the world devise no method of redemption ? Will 
rulers ever continue to devote their energies towards fit correction of 



70 

srime, rather tban diligently to seek some system for its due prevention 1 
Might not the discovery of how best to minister timely help, be a higher 
aim in policy, than the most equitable code of punishment that ever was 
designed 1 that the poor could have early succour ! Wholesome 
teaching — moral training — right guidance ! Then perchance, we might 
have fewer culprits, and worthier, happier citizens !" 

As these thoughts passed through her mind, Isabella's attention was 
drawn, by the lay-sister, towards a carriage that came quietly but rap- 
idly along the otherwise- empty streets. There was no retinue ; no train 
of attendants, no state, or guard ; but the lay-sister whispered : — '•'• That 
is his grace, the Duke — our exemplary sovereign, Vincentio. He is 
going to early mass and confession, at the monastery hard by. Ah ! he 
is indeed a worthy prince ! So young a man, yet so strict in his reli- 
gious observances ; so modest and retired in his habits ; so devoted to 
study ; so unostentatious in the discharge of his duties. See how he 
avoids parade and display in this early hour, and in the plain equipage 
he chooses for going to his devotions. Holy virgin mother, assoil him, 
and have his soul in thy especial care !" ejaculated the nun. 

" Amen !" murmured Isabella, with fervour. " May he have all divine 
grace to fulfil his princely duties, in promoting the welfare and best hap- 
piness of his subjects. May he learn to inquire into their wants, to 
minister to their necessities and to improve their condition. A prince's 
lot were indeed an enviable one, might he effect this end during his 
reign. Were every monarch, at his death, to leave his people amelio- 
rated by his acts, proudly might he listen to the praises showered on his 
name, and contemplate the posthumous honors with which his memory 
should live and be revered To be the friend of such a prince, to aid 
him in his views, to inspire ana sustain him in such designs would bo 
high privilege, and tempt an ambition that should make a life of peace 
and retirement mere cowardice and self-indulgence. Were such a post 
of friendship possible, it were glorious enough in its prospects of patri 
otism and loyal help, to make the calm happiness of a convent-life, — 
which I fondly hope may be mine, — seem poor in the exchange ! The 
vocation of a worthy prince, is not unlike that of the votaress ; — it is a 
life dedicated to a sacred cause." 



THE VOTARESS. 71 

Full four vcar3 had elapsed since the death of Nanni, when one fine 
autumn, Claudio came to his sister in high spirits, telling her he had an 
invitation for them both to spend the vacation at a country house, some 
miles' distance from the city. It belonged to a family, with the master 
of whom. Claudio had lately formed an acquaintance ; and he and his 
sister were requested to join the festivities, with which, according to 
annual custom, the vintage was about to be celebrated. 

Claudio had lately made many acquaintances, of whom his sister knew 
nothing. Young gentlemen. — of suitable rank to his own. bat of irreg- 
ular habits, and vitiated tastes ; who were dissolute on principle, regard- 
ing dissipation as a duty, and profligacy as an accomplishment ; who 
thought decorum lack of spirit, and morality a slavish restraint, — had 
recently won him to be their associate; and he had spent more of his 
time with them, and had imitated them more closely in their worst fol- 
lies, than he would have chosen to come to the knowledge of his pure 
sister. 

His respect and love for her, made him regard her esteem far too 
highly, to risk falling in her opinion, by letting her know that he had 
formed such acquaintances as these; but the family to whom he now 
introduced her, were worthy people, and he brought her the invitation in 
question, with much delight. 

The brother and sister, with the rest of the guests, were welcomed, 
on their arrival in the vineyards, by rejoicings, firing of pistol-shots, and 
flourishes of trumpets and horns. Gay awnings, and arboured seats, 
were distributed about the grounds. Flags were flying, and the peas- 
antry were dressed in their holiday attire, shouting, and singing, and 
dancing, during the intervals of their bacchanalian labour. The vines 
spread their flaunting arms laden with rich foliage, and richer fruitage, 
on all sides; proffering their luxuriance of beauty and of enjoyment. 

The family-party was assembled to receive the guests. It consisted 
of the host, Erasmus ; his wife, Theresa ; and their only daughter, 
Juliet ; who supported the steps of an aged man, her godfather, Anselmo. 
This old gentleman formed completely one of the family; for he doted 
to such excess on his god-daughter, that he could not live away from 



72 ISABELLA J 

her : and he had accordingly taken up his abode in her father's house, 
frequently declaring that she should be sole heiress of all he possessed. 
He was very wealthy, and not a little whimsical ; but like many rich old 
gentlemen, his whims were tolerated for the sake of his wealth. His 
principal whim was, to have his darling Juliet in constant attendance 
upon him; he would never willingly have suffered her to stir from his 
side, and in deference to his wish, the young girl scarcely ever quitted it 
for an instant. Her parents loved to see her thus deferential, in consid- 
eration of the large fortune which they believed she was eventually secur- 
ing ; but her own motives in this complaisance, were, the gratitude she 
felt for the fond attachment towards herself, the pleasure she saw her 
attention gave to one so old and so dependent on her for happiness, and 
the real affection with which these combined feelings had inspired her for 
him. Hitherto, the unceasing proximity which he exacted from her, 
and maintained between them, had been a source of gratification rather 
than of inconvenience ; but now, for the first time, she found this close 
and incessant personal attendance, irksome. 

She had never before grudged the duty which held her apart, attached 
to the side of an old man. while those of her own age, walked, or danced, 
or sported about, during the vintage festivities of former years. But on 
this occasion, she began to wish that her godfather loved her a little bit 
less, that he claimed rather less exclusively her society, that he did not 
go wholly look to her for help and affection. For she had now for the 
first time met with young people of her own age, who attracted her pow- 
erfully. Both Isabella and Claudio won her regard, and drew her inter- 
est and her thoughts towards them, as no young persons she had ever 
seen, had done. They were of higher rank, of superior education, of 
more refined breeding, than any acquaintance her family had till that 
time made ; and they seemed to Juliet, beings of another sphere — almost 
of another nature, from the rural neighbours, the farmers' sons and 
daughters, whom she had chiefly seen at her father's house until then 
The high intelligence, the dignity, composure, and elevated style of 
beauty, which characterized Isabella, claimed for her at once the admi- 
ration of the young country-bred lady, as an embodiment of all that she 



THE VOTARESS. 73 

could conceive exalted and becoming in woman ; while the spirit, grace, 
and personal advantages of Claudio, seemed in Juliet's eyes, all that 
could be desired to form the complete exemplar of a gentleman. Right 
noble did the brother and sister look, and speak, and move; and well 
did they credit to their gentle birth and education, both in person and 
demeanour. 

For Juliet, she felt as though she could never sate herself with 
watching them, and admiring them, and noting their every word, look, 
and gesture. During the first day or two of their visit, she found almost 
sufficient pleasure in this occupation, to indemnify her for being com- 
pelled to keep aloof from them ; but after a time, she longed to talk with 
them, to join them in the entertainments that were going forward, and 
to form a nearer and more intimate acquaintance with such beings, who 
seemed as loveable and gentle-natured, as they were loftily endowed. 

But the moment she showed any disposition to move away towards 
the dancers, or to take part among the talkers, or to make one in a party 
of saunterers through the grounds, Anselmo would say: — - You are not 
going to leave me, Julietta, my child 1 You're not thinking of running 
away from your poor old godfather, are you 1 Stay by me, dear : stay 
by me.'' And one look at his fond old face, together with his voice, 
which quavered with age, and not with want of earnestness, sufficed to 
retain Juliet close by the elbow of his arm-chair. 

It was glorious autumnal weather, warm and genial ; and the old 
man's easy chair was brought out every morning during the festival, and 
placed in a good situation on the borders of the lawn, whence he could 
command a view of the vineyards, and grounds, and of all the joyous 
groups that wandered, or sported, or danced, or idled, in them. Over 
the back of his chair, or by his side, hung, ever watchful and affectionate, 
his darling god-child : telling him the names of the guests, helping his 
imperfect sight with her quick eyes, bringing to him all that escaped his 
duller hearing by means of her acute ears, and supplying his failing 
senses with her own young ardour and sensibility 

" She is my treasure, my joy. my sole delight ;" said the old gentle- 
man, in answer to something Isabella had said as she stood near, that she 



n 

might form better acquaintance with Juliet, whom she liked for her pa- 
tient devotion to her godfather. " She is youth and health, eyesight, and 
hearing, every thing to me. She makes me forget that I am old — and 
helps me to fancy myself a boy again. She absolutely makes over to my 
use her active limbs, her quick faculties, her young senses : she almost 
•invests me with her health and beauty ; and goes hard to make me into 
a lovely young creature like herself, so entirely does she give herself up 
to me and my service. But, bless her, she shall find that I am grateful 
— yes, that I am grateful. I'll give her what is the best part of me, — - 
my money, — -as she generously bestows upon me, herself. All in good 
time — all in good time, though ;" said the old gentleman, chuckling and 
nodding with a knowing air ; " I can't give it her till I've done with her, 
for fear she should take it in her giddy little head to fly away from me, 
and leave me, after all." 

" I think, sir, what you know — -even what I know — of Juliet's steadi- 
ness of attachment for you, would ensure anything but such a desertion, 
whatever }^our kindness might see fit to present, her with, — and the 
rather for that very kindness ;" said Isabella. 

" Ah, my dear young lady, I know what I know ;" said the old gentle- 
man, turning his twinkling eyes again upon Isabella, and nodding and 
chuckling as before ; " I know very well, that when you young ladies 
get hold of a good round sum, you are apt to look out for some likely 
young fellow upon whom to bestow it ; and then, goodbye to the old 
fellow for ever and a day ! No, no, all I have shall be my Julietta's, 
some of these odd years — but not now — not now ; all in good time — all 
in good time ! I'm not going to risk losing the delight of my eyes— nay, 
my eyes, and ears, and senses, themselves — youth itself — as long as I 
can keep all secure. I dare say you think me a very selfish old man, — 
and so perhaps I am — but I can't help it. Age is apt to teach selfish- 
ness. Youth is capable of sacrifice — courts sacrifice, glories in sacrifice. 
At your years, I dare say I could have been as self-denying as you — but 
now I know better — I know better.' 1 

Isabella, whose clear perceptions, and whose love of truth, would not 
allow her to agree with this view of the old gentleman's, respecting his 



THE VOTARESS. 75 

acquired better knowledge, arid yet whose respect for age would not per- 
mit her to argue with him adversely, held her peace. 

" You are silent, my good young lady : you don't think as I do — of 
course not. What old man and young lady ever thought alike? Yet 
I don't blame you — I don't blame you ; and I dare say you're too good 
to blame me- — at any rate you're too polite to do so aloud. But I'm 
quite ready to blame myself — I own it is selfish of me to keep this dear 
little creature glued to my side : — if I were an old woman in reality, as 
I am in my weakness, and my foolish fondness, I dare say I should pin 
her to my gown, or tie her to my apron-string. But I can't for the life 
of me help it : she's so good, and so careful of me, and so dear a girl 
altogether, I really cannot help it. Now, can I?" 

Thus directly appealed to, Isabella smiled, and said, "I think you 
could, sir, if you tried hard ; or indeed, ever so little. But you don't 
try ; you don't wish to help it." 

" I'm afraid I don't :" said the old gentleman, with his knowing little 
chuckle. c; It's all very well, my dear 3'oung lady, for you young people 
to give up a pleasure— you who have so many at command, with all your 
senses, and faculties, and powers, fresh and vigorous about you — but for 
us old folks, to part with a single joy, out of so few that remain to us, at 
our withered season of life, is a magnanimity- — a heroism, not to be ex- 
pected from our poor remnant of strength." 

"You forget the compensating joy there is in the very exercise of 
magnanimity, of heroism : it would supply to you the one you yielded;" 
said IsabeFa; -You would be indemnified: you would gain your re- 
ward, depend on it." 

"My dear young lady, you speak as a young lady; you promise me 
the rewards of youth. I told you before, youth takes pleasure in sacri- 
fice — which is another name for heroism and magnanimity. You. your- 
self, as I have heard it whispered, are about to become a nun. This, to 
you appears a noble dedication of yourself to a recluse life, a wise relin- 
quishing of the pomps and vanities of the world, a judicious withdrawal 
from delusion and error, a worthy offering, in short, upon the shrine of 
religion : — to me, I confess, it appears a sacrifice- -and nothing more or 
less." 



76 ISABELLA ; 

' ; In my eyes it is rather a claim than an offering, that I make ; I 
regard it as a privilege, not a sacrifice ;" said Isabella. " A life of peace 
and holiness, is surely a gain, and no loss." 

"Ay; as I said before — or something like it — age and youth seldom 
view things in the same way. To my thinking it is a sacrifice — a sheer 
sacrifice of youth, beauty, intellect, virtue ; a sacrifice of a virgin heart 
and person that might bless some worthy man, and the world itself, as 
wife and mother ; a sacrifice of talents and excellences that might adorn 
and benefit a far wider sphere than the interior of a convent. But that's 
an old man's notion. I know what theje things are — you don't, though 
you possess them." And the old gentleman chuckled, nodded, and gave 
his knowing look. 

" And so you really intend taking the veil?" asked Juliet of Isabella. 
" You, so young, so noble, so happy, so" — she blushed ; and checked the 
acknowledgment of beauty, the personal admiration, which her artless 
eyes plainly expressed. 

" I hope to have my father's consent to my entering my novitiate 
among the votarists of St. Clare, before another twelvemonth elapses;" 
replied Isabella. 

" I am sorry — that is, — I regret — I could have hoped, that our acquaint- 
ance once begun, we might have formed a friendship that would have 
lasted through life;" said Juliet. " I never beheld any one out of my 
own family, whom I feel I could love so well as I could you. I wish we 
were really related ; then I could come to your convent and see you, 
even after you become a nun ; and we might still be friends, as I had 
flattered myself with believing we might be." 

" Let us fancy ourselves related ; let us call each other, cousin ; and 
look upon this gentleman as our kind uncle, whom, by some strange 
chance, we have never till now discovered. Will you have us for nieces, 
dear sir ?" said Isabella, gaily. 

" Indeed, will I, and right glad'y ," said the old gentleman. " You 
know I'm apt to be selfish — you were too polite to say so — but I know 
you thought so — come, confess, didn't you?" 

" Your niece knows her duty better than to contradict her uncle 
Anselmo ;" said Isabella, curtseying. 



THE VOTARESS. 77 

" Go along with your sauciness under pretence of duty, you rogue ;" 
said the old gentleman, in a high state of chuckle ; " but as I was saying 
— I'm apt to be selfish ; and by the new-established relationship, I shall 
get two dear girls to love, instead of one — and moreover I shall expect 
a kiss a-piece from my new-found nieces. But there's one especial mat- 
ter, of which I must forewarn you, niece Isabella ; and that is, you must 
never expect to rival my other niece in my affection ; for I shall never 
never love any one so dearly, so fondly, so exclusively, as my own little 
darling goddaughter, Juliet." 

" Agreed ; I am content to be second to her in your heart ; but to no 
one else will I yield grade in my uncle's regard ;" said Isabella. 

" Second to me only in this ; as in every thing else. I am avowedly 
second to my dear cousin Isabella ;" said Juliet. 

Claudio coining towards them at this moment, he was made acquainted 
with his new-found relations ; and smiles, and good-humour, and pleasant 
congratulations were exchanged on all sides. 

There was a large accession to the party that day. Fresh guests 
arrived ; and additional gaiety went forward. More feasting and 
dancing than ever, were proposed for the evening ; the shrubberies round 
the lawn were hung with lamps, that the ball might continue out of 
doors after nightfall, the weather being so warm and beautiful. It was 
so fine, the scene so exhilarating, and so much enjoyed by old Anselmo, 
that it was agreed there was no risk in allowing his chair still to occupy 
the position it had maintained all day ; especially as his goddaughter 
was at her usual post to see to his comforts, and that he was warmly 
wrapped up. 

" And let me put this cosy thing round your throat, godpapa ;" said 
Juliet ; " you know I knitted it for you myself — and this is the very 
time for you to wear it." 

" She does just as she pleases with me, you see," said the old gentle- 
man, turning, with evident pride and delight in her despotism, to Claudio, 
who was standing near, and who indeed had hovered in the vicinity of 
the easy-chair for the last several hours ; '-• see what it is to be a fond 
old godpapa, submitting to be tyrannized over by a young hussy who 
knows her power but too well." 



78 ISABELLA ; 

" She seems to use it very pleasantly, and very gently too ;" said the 
young man, watching the little hands, that, spite of their being gloved, 
deftly arranged the folds of the comforter round the old gentleman's 
neck. 

" Yes, yes — I don't know but I'm well off in my slavery. Like most 
of her roguish sex, she knows how to make her chains sit easily. They 
can all of 'em, bless'em, if they choose, hide the clanking, and prevent 
the galling of the fetters, with some magic contrivance of their own, 
which hardly lets us know we wear any at all ;" said the old gentleman, 
with his favourite chuckle. 

" Pardon me, sir ; but it seems rather you, here, who impose fetters ;" 
said Claudio. " Do you not enjoy the glory of attaching this fair cap- 
tive to your chariot-wheels ? She has not quitted the side of that tri- 
umphant car of yours — your easy-chair, — for five minutes during the 
day " 

" Ah, ha ! young gentleman, you would fain lead her away as a part- 
ner in the dance, I dare say ;" said Anselmo, with his knowing nod ; 
"but I can't spare her — I can't spare her." 

" I have no wish to dance, I assure you, sir ;" replied Claudio ; " I 
am well content to stay here and swell your triumph, as another captive, 
enchained in pleasant talk." 

' ; I'm afraid you flatter an old man," said Anselmo, with the saga- 
cious twinkle of his eyes ; " I saw you dancing away, with right good 
will, yesterday and the day before." 

" I do not care to dance this evening ; I think I must have turned 
my foot ; it scarcely amounts to a sprain — but my ankle is sufficiently 
uneasy to make me feel no wish to dance." As Claudio said this, he 
could perceive, spite of the dim light. — for they were in a sort of bower 
of trees, which fenced and screened the easy-chair from the night-air, — 
that Juliet's fair head turned quickly towards him, as if in interest 
awakened by his words. 

"Juliet, my dear child, you should yourself put something round 
your throat ;" said Anselmo ; " you know you are not accustomed to be 
in the open air thus late. Your shawl lies in the hall ; you must put it 
on ; I will send for it." 



THE VOTARESS. 70 

" I know where it is ; I will fetch it, sir !" exclaimed Claudio, dart- 
ing across the lawn, towards the house. 

" Humph !" muttered the old gentleman, following the figure of the 
young man with his eyes, as it bounded over the well-lit open space ; 
"tolerably fast running, that, for a man with a turned foot !" adding to 
himself: — " If it's as I suspect, I'll make so bold as just to give the young 
spark a hint. I'm not going to have my little Julietta lured away from 
me, yet awhile. No, no ; all in good time ; all in good time." 

When Claudio returned with the shawl, he took the privilege of 
himself placing it round the beautiful figure he had so constantly during 
the last few hours found himself admiring, as it bent over the old man's 
chair. 

" "What is that you're doing? ay, — putting her shawl on — ay, ay; 
you're cousins, you're cousins. Come round here on the other side of me, 
young gentleman ; I hear best on this side ; my right ear is a little deaf." 

" And yet you let my cousin Juliet usually stand on that side, sir ;" 
said Claudio. 

' ; Juliet ? ay, — I hear her well enough ; I am accustomed to her 
voice ;" said old Anselmo. " I know its every tone by heart. I ought 
to do so — for it breathes nothing but love and tenderness for me ; I can't 
spare one vibration of it for any body else. I'm well-nigh jealous of every 
word she gives her parents ; judge if I'll let her bestow them on any one 
else.". 

" Not on her cousins, sir ? Isabella will think herself hardly used, if 
she be not allowed a share of Juliet's words ; and Claudio also hopes for 
his family portion." 

The hand of the young girl lay on the back of her godfather's chair. 
The eyes of the young man had noted it, traced as it was, even though 
shadowed by the overhanging trees, by the gleam of the white glove it 
wore. He could not resist the impulse which bade him place his own 
upon it. At first, the imprisoned hand made a slight effort at with- 
drawal : but afterwards lay tremblingly still, as if its owner were unwill- 
ing to disturb the old gentleman, who rejoined :— 

" Well, we'll see what can be done for relations ;" and he chuckled 



80 ISABELLA j 

excessively as he placed great stress on the word ; " of course, the claims 
of relations are to be considered. But as for any such impertinents as 
wooers or suitors, we'll have nothing to say to them, will we, Julietta, my 
darling ? We won't spare them so much as a syllable, a single sigh. 
They may sigh and long as much as they will, themselves — but I tell 
'em all, fairly, my little girl's not to be won till her old godfather can 
spare her, and that'll never be till he's in his grave Then she shall have 
all his money — not a penny before, — and she shall do what she pleases 
with it, and give it to him who shall win her and wear her. And then, 
but not till then, I say, joy go with her and the man of her choice, who- 
ever he may be." 

a Why not help her to make her choice, that you may be sure he is 
worthy of her ?" said Claudio. " A man worthy of my cousin Juliet, it 
will need some pains to find." Here the hand that rested on hers, ven- 
tured a little pressure. " Why not give her the advantage of your assist- 
ance, sir ? Why not aid her judgment with yours, and let her youth 
benefit by your experience?" 

" Youth seldom accepts age as its guide in such matters, young gen- 
tleman ;" said Anselmo, more gravely. 

" But my cousin Juliet has already proved, in her affectionate attach- 
ment to your person, that she has no will but yours, dear sir ;" replied 
Claudio. 

il She will give a crowning proof of her implicit obedience to my will, 
if she wait until my will itself be opened ;" said the old gentleman. " She 
will find there sufficient testimony, that I am not unmindful of the way 
in which she has hitherto made my wishes her law." 

" Are you not denying yourself a pleasure in refusing to witness the 
happiness of your goddaug iter, sir?" said Claudio. " Why defer, until 
after you are gone, a happiness which would be enhanced to her by 
sharing it with you ?" 

Here the hand which he had hitherto held enclosed beneath his own, 
struggled, and resolutely freed itself; but Claudio had scarcely wondered 
what he could have said to occasion so signal a token of his having of- 
fended, when he was re-assured by the voluntary return of the hand to 



THE VOTARESS. 81 

nestle itself beneath his ; and how was his re-assurance raised to raptu- 
rous conviction, by finding that this little hand was now ungloved. 

u I am the best judge of what is my own pleasure, my dear young 
gentleman ;" said Anselmo ; " and I am quite sure that it would be no 
pleasure to me to give up my little darling to a husband. No, no, I can't 
spare her ; all in good time ; all in good time. Besides, you talk of her 
happiness being assured by marriage ; how do you know that she has ever 
yet seen the man she could love ? — and she must love, before she can find 
her happiness in marriage. I remember enough of my youth, to know 
that;" said Anselmo, resuming his little chuckle. " There's no love yet 
in my Julietta's young heart for any body but her old godfather ; I 
know there isn't. Surely, you don't pretend to read your cousin Juliet's 
heart better than I do, young gentleman?" 

" I am certain of one thing, sir ; that my cousin Juliet's heart is as 
generous and frank, as it is tender ; when once it knows its own happi 
ness may be secured by making the happiness of that man who shall 
venture to declare his fate to be in her hands, she will never hesitate to 
avow her love, while she accepts and rewards his." 

" All in good time ; all in good time. This will be all well enough 
when the man comes who is to declare it ; but he shan't come, if I can 
help it ; he shan't declare himself, while I'm alive ; I'll take good care 
of that. I never let her out of my sight, but when I'm asleep ; so he 
must be a brisk suitor who will outwit such an Argus as her old god- 
father. Ah, ah ! you'll allow the lover must be very much in earnest, 
who shall contrive to win my little Julietta from me, mustn't he ?" 

'■ He who loves Julietta, will be earnest in his love, depend on it, my 
dear sir." And Claudio could not be quite sure, but he thought he now 
felt a little soft hand give that returning pressure, which his own had 
been some time soliciting. 

" Ay, ay : all in good time. But bless me," said the old gentleman, 
"it must be very late. See, the dancing is over. They are all going 
towards the house. Give me your arm, my darling ; and you, my good 
young gentleman, let me take yours also ; and I will go at once to my 
own room. I am growing quite a rake, keeping such hours ; but I 
always say, Julietta makes me a boy again ; she gives me her youth." 



82 ISABELLA ; 

The supper was over ■ the lamps were extinguished ; the guests had 
all departed, excepting those who slept there ; and even these had retired 
to rest, with the exception of the brother and sister. 

The moon had risen, and was now casting her tranquil light upon 
vineyard, lawn, and garden. Isabella, won by the solemn stillness of 
the scene, which had so lately been all gaiety and merry uproar, was 
pacing to and fro upon a broad terrace walk, that skirted one portion of 
the grounds, commanding an extensive view over upland and valley. 
All lay bathed in the pure moon-beams, looking so peaceful, so suggestive 
of serene thoughts, that she could not help indulging the fit of musing 
hope which the hour and scene inspired. 

Claudio, restless, excited, his heart full of sweet emotion, with what 
had so lately passed, was also wandering about the grounds, unable to 
withdraw to his room, indisposed as he was for sleep. 

It seems that Juliet partook of the same disinclination to retire to 
rest, which kept the brother and sister still abroad ; for as Claudio, in 
the course of his wanderings, turned into a path of the flower garden 
which led close by the house, he beheld her standing at one of the win- 
dows that opened from her room on to the lawn. She was gazing forth 
upon the moonlight, and stood half screened by the white muslin drapery 
which curtained her window ; but she was distinctly visible to the lover's 
eye, who thought she looked only the more lovely, thus veiled amid 
those snowy folds. 

He ad vailed, and uttered her name. 

" You are still luxuriating in this beautiful night ;" she said ; "J do 
not wonder you cannot bear to leave the garden ; I can hardly quit the 
window, myself; all looks so calm and beautiful." 

" Will you not come forth and enjoy it for half an hour longer?" said 
Claudio ; " my sister is in the grounds still, somewhere, I think ; shall 
we seek her V 

Juliet hesitated ; he stepped into the room, and snatched up the 
shawl which lay on a chair near. Folding it round her, he said : ; ' You 
need not fear the night air ; it is as bland as noon-day." 

Juliet put her hand within the arm he proffered, to lead her forth 



THE VOTARESS. 83 

from the window : and they passed out into the garden. They were in 
no mood for speech, either of them : the scene was not one to inspire 
volubility : yet they talked on. as if they dared not trust themselves 
with silence. But suddenly Claudio said, in an altered voice. — altered 
from its assumed gaiety and ease, to a deep earnestness of tone : — " Tell 
me. Juliet, dear Juliet. " 

" There is your sister !" exclaimed Juliet at the same instant, as she 
sprang forward to meet Isabella. 

•• I have persuaded our cousin Juliet to join us in a moonlight stroll. 
Isabel :" said her brother ; f { it is impossible to go to bed such a night 
as this. I could be well content, for my part, to wander about such 
grounds as these, thus companioned, until day-break." 

And it was long ere the three young people did separate ; but at 
length Isabella's prudence prevailed : and they returned to the house ? 
time enough to take at least a few hours' rest against the morrow. 

On the following day. Anselmo was confined to the house ; for, spite 
of all precautions, he had not escaped taking cold from so long sitting in 
the open air after nightfall. Close by his invalid chair, was Juliet, of 
course, in constant requisition, during the whole of this time. In vain 
Claudio hovered near : no means had he of communicating with her, or 
of speaking to her unobserved. The old gentleman was peevish, queru- 
lous, fretful, with his illness ; and afforded no opportunity for conversa- 
tion. • Scarcely a look, far less any such sweet token of intelligence and 
regard as had passed between them on the previous evening, could the 
lover obtain from the young girl. It seemed as if. with the morning 
hours, had come discretion, reserve : a dread lest she might have been 
too forward, too unmaidenly bold, in the signs of preference which she 
had permitted to escape her ; and she seemed resolved to give no more 
such encouragement, either to her own feelings, or to a passion scarcely 
avowed on his part. 

Claudio fancied he could read all this in her manner : and he could 
scarcely endure the restraint and suspense which prevented his asking 
its true interpretation. His impatience increased hour by hour ; almost 
beyond bearing, or concealment. At length he controlled and consoled 



84 ISABELLA ; 

himself with the thought that evening would set her free from this bond- 
age ; and that then he would seek her in her room, where he might open 
his heart to her, and learn from hers what he hoped existed there for him. 

" The stillness of evening, the sobered light, will better befit her timid 
soul in its utterance, than this garish bustle of day ;" thought the lover • 
" I could hardly hope so frank an avowal from her, were I to seek it now. 
as I shall hope to gain, when befriended by quiet and dusk. Let me 
wait in hopeful patience." 

The ailing old gentleman had withdrawn rather better, and somewhat 
less cross, to his own apartment ; the family had also retired to rest ; 
when Claudio took the garden-path towards Juliet's room. Both folding- 
sashes of the window stood wide open ; and near it sat the young girl 
herself, her fingers loosely clasped in one another, her head a little bent, 
and her whole attitude bespeaking abstraction and reverie. 

For a few moments, the lover indulged himself with gazing upon the 
fair picture she formed, sitting thus, in the softened light of the moon ; 
then he advanced, murmuring her name. 

Juliet arose, startled ; then smiled, as she said : — " 0, it is you !" 

" Yes ; forgive my thus breaking in upon your retirement ; but I 
have been unable to approach you all day ; I cannot behold you, and not 
long to hold some intercourse with you ; your every look and word are 
so exclusively engrossed by your godfather, that when you are with him, 
nobody else can obtain one. Let your cousin Claudio claim a few mo- 
ments of speech with you, now ; if you will not grudge them from your 
subject of thought, which seemed a pleasant one, when I interrupted 
you, by coming hither." 

" I was thinking — of— of — my cousins. — of Isabella. I cannot help 
regretting (I fear, sinfully) that she is about to shroud so much beauty, 
and so many fair gifts in a cloister. And yet she looks the vestal pre- 
ordained, in every particular of person and manner. How saintly pure 
is the beautiful candour of her face. What a majesty tempered with be- 
nignity there is in her aspect. How dignified is her step ; how musical 
is her voice, full of the calm and self-possession of a righteous soul ! She 
is, indeed, virtue and holiness personified. She looks so good, so elevated 



THE VOTARESS. 00 

above the follies and weaknesses of the every-day world, that, do you know, 
I, her poor little cousin, conscious of being far her inferior in goodness. 
as in every thing else, feel a little afraid of her. for all I love her so much. 
and for all her condescension in establishing relationship between us. ' 

•• • Afraid !' you need not ; Isabella is as gentle and sympathetic, as 
she is good : hers is no austere virtue. Those only who do not know 
her truly, can think it so. Besides, you do not judge yourself truly ; 
she. who is justice itself, would tell you that you are only the more charm- 
ing for this modest opinion of your own merit: that you are ;; 

■• I ask not for my own praises : r; interrupted Juliet, smiling: •• we 
were not discussing my merits, but your sister's. Tell me. is she not 
cold? I know not whether it be my awe of her serene virtue, but to me, 
Isabella, in her cool judgment, her dispassionate purity, sometimes brings 
to my mind the image of the driven snow." 

•• You do not know her fully yet :' ; replied Claudio. " To those who 
judge her only from a first impression, she may appear devoid of warmth. 
But study her character truly, and you will find no lack of fervor, of 
generous sympathy, of all that is kindly and noble. You should see h u* 
when some exalted theme possesses her. That calm eye lights up : the 
still ?oft lip quivers : the staid form dilates — and passionate eloquence 
flows m a torrent from her heart and soul. She is a glorious creature ! 
She forms my ideal of a sister !" 

"Juliet's eyes showed that she thought this enthusiasm proved him a 
brother worthy of the sister he so exalted : but reading in the eyes that 
met hers, how fully her own revealed the admiration she felt, she ap- 
proached the window, saying : — •■ I wonder whether Isabella will come 
forth to enjoy the beauty of this night again with us : it is as beauteous 
as the last. ;; 

Claudio stepped to her side : his arm stole round the young girl's 
waist, as he whispered : — ■• I have told Juiietta how well Isabel fulfils 
my ideal of a sister : shall I now tell her who forms the ideal of my 
love ?" 

■• Xo. no : I am thinking of Isabella : let us watch for her." 

••I'm well content: let us watch." 



86 / 

They stood thus, linked together, gazing forth upon the still night. 
No sound less hushed than the murmur of waters, or the light rustle of 
leaves, broke upon the silence which almost made audible the throbbing 
of those two young hearts. Night and Silence lent their aid to Nature 
and to Love, that their mighty voices, — mute but eloquent, gentle but 
all-potent, — should be heard. The moon shone blandly on ; the stars 
shed their mild radiance, patiently and watchfully through the waning 
hours; but still no Isabel came. And then midnight east her dark 
mantle around. The moon set ; the stars faded from the sky , the grey 
dawn chased the lingering shadows of night, and the first blush of morn- 
ing tinged the silver veil of day-break, before Claudio crept forth from 
the garden-window of Juliet's chamber. 

It was noon the next day ; when, — the party all assembled in the 
drawing-room, Juliet as usual hanging over her godfather's chair, in 
close attendance upon him, and her parents occupied in entertaining 
their guests. — a letter was placed in Claudio's hands. It was addressed 
to himself and Isabella, by their father, and had been just forwarded 
express from Vienna, where it had arrived on the day previous. It con- 
tained a hasty summons to his children, to meet him there immediately, 
as he hoped to obtain a short leave of absence previous to an intended 
expedition against the enemy. 

The young lover turned pale, as his sister delightedly announced to 
the company, their near prospect of beholding the father she so longed 
to embrace. 

" We shall be sorry to lose you, my dear young friends," said Eras- 
mus and Theresa, " but it is natural you should be eager to join your 
father immediately. Orders shall be given, that you may set forth with- 
out loss of time." 

While her father and mother were saying this, Juliet had ventured 
one look at Claudio ; and then, without a word, dropped upon the floor. 
She had swooned. 

•• Dear child ! dear child !" sobbed her old godfather. " Lift her 
gently, there, there ; bear her to the window ; the air will revive her; 
she will be better presently. She stands too long by my chair ; she 
shall have a seat bv me, in future." 



THE VOTARESS. 87 

When Juliet recovered, she found Claudio no longer in the room. 
He and his sister, she heard, were gone to prepare for immediate de- 
parture to Vienna. She strove to command herself : and steadily re- 
sisted all recommendations to withdraw, lest she might not see them 
before they left. She made light of her fainting: and all she could be 
persuaded to do. was to lie down upon the couch, which Anselmo had 
had wheeled over to the side of his arm-chair, for her. Here she lay. 
endeavouring to suppress the trembling agitation which possessed her ; 
until Isabella and Claudio re-entered the room to take leave of their 
friends. While his sister was bidding farewell to Anselmo. and thank- 
ing Erasmus and his wife for their hospitality, during the visit she had 
so much enjoyed, the lover approached the couch and found means to 
convey unobserved a letter into his Juliet's hands. With this treasure, 
the moment the brother and sister were gone, the young girl hastened 
to her own room, and there devoured these words : — 

" Juliet — my bride — my wife ! < 

"A mandate, you would be the last to bid me disregard, calls 
me from you. But I shall return with favoring nightfall. Let the 
secret of our loves rest within our own hearts, until such- time as I can 
proclaim you mine with befitting triumph. I have been, till now. too 
unthrifty of my time and means. Love will teach me prudence and in- 
dustry, that I may build a fortune worthy of your acceptance ; unless, 
meantime, it please Heaven to endow you with the one promised by 
Anselmo. I shall have to watch lest the eagerness of love bid me 
grudge the old man his short season of remaining life. Why will age 
tempt youth to such unhallowed thoughts, by setting conditions to its 
bounty, cold, heartless, unreasonable ? Why should it refuse sympathy 
with the ardour which itself once knew 1 Why not renew its own prime. 
by lovingly sharing its stores, while yet alive to reap a harvest of grate- 
ful affection, rather than convert to a tardy bequest, what may then be 
received with scant thanks, for coming fatally too late 1 But since your 
godfather wills that your dower be thus shut within his coffers, until his 
death frees it and you — I will not be so selfish as to withdraw you from 



88 

a home where you now command your due of ease and luxury, by ask- 
ing you to share that of a poor student. We will wait until the poor 
student shall have earned one worthy of you, or until you yourself shall 
be so rich as to offer him one. You see, his presumption, — or rather 
his faith in your love, — allows him not to doubt that you will do so ; as 
his own love will teach his pride to be exalted, and not humbled, in 
having to owe all to you. Till then, receive as your husband, in heart, 
in all, save ceremonial form, — and ever fondly, in fast affection, 

" Your lover, the happy 

Claudio." 

On arriving in Vienna, the brother and sister found their hope dis- 
appointed, of seeing their father already there. No tidings reached 
them concerning him for several days ; but then a rumour came, of there 
having been an unexpected assault on the part of the enemy — of an en- 
i gagement — of a fatal loss of officers ; and among these, fell the father of 
Claudio and Isabella. 

So sudden a defeat to all her hopes of beholding her sole surviving 
parent, ovas a shock indeed to the filial piety of Isabella. It put the 
crowning desire to the inclination she had always felt for a conventual 
life ; and she besought sister Aloysia, to obtain the reverend prioress's 
sanction, that she might become one of the holy sisterhood without 
delay. 

Her friend bade her think well, lest the impatience of grief was the 
sole motive to this decision ; and whether she might not, hereafter, when 
time had assuaged the first violence of her sorrow, repent a step which 
could not then be recalled. But Isabella explained how long it had 
been her wish to become a nun ; how she had learned to sigh for the 
pious calm of the votarist. 

'• Far from foreseeing a time when I shall regret, and desire to recall, 
my present determination," she said, " my only hesitation would arise 
from the doubt whether it be not a kind of selfishness to withdraw from 
the turmoil and pollution of the world, into a life of purity and peace." 

The period of mourning had not concluded — many months were 



THE VOTARESS. 89 

scarcely passed, after her father's death, when Isabella was about to see 
her devout hopes fulfilled. On the very day she was to commence the 
season of her probation, as a novice of St. Clare, she was speaking with 
one of the holy sisters, concerning the duties and observances of the 
order, its regulations, its immunities, its restrictions, its religious exer- 
cises, its appointed hours, that she might strictly abide by them all ; 
and she said : — " And have you nuns 710 farther privileges V 



How Isabella's vocation was set aside ; how she was induced to live 
in the world, a duchess, instead of within convent walls, a nun, is shown 
elsewhere, with — 

" What's yet behind, that's meet you all should know." 



^CT%^^ 




TALE VII 

KATHARINA AND BIANCA; 

THE SHEEW, AXD THE DEUTRE. 



" The one as famous for a scolding tongue, 
As is the other for beauteous modesty." 

Taming of the Sk Ho. 



11 But I must and will go to church to-day, Antonia ; it is the Santa 
Lucia : and the altar is to be decked — and there is to be a procession — - 
and all the world will be there— and I tell you. I must go." 

" But our aunt is worse to-day, you know ; she must not be left alone. 
And -remember, it is my turn to go out to-day. Claudia : and CamiLo 
will be so disappointed, if I do not meet him ; for I promised him, I 
would, as I knew to-day was my Sunday abroad, and — — " 

" 0. if it be to meet your betrothed, of course, I must give up ;" re- 
torted Claudia. " No doubt, a pious duty ought to give way to a love- 
meeting." 

' : Nay, you are unjust, sister ;" replied Antonia. " I merely pleaded 
for my turn, thinking of his disappointment, and my promise ; but I 
must not be selfish. My aunt shall not be left, yet you shall have your 
wish. Go to church, dear. It is a laudable motive ; you shall pray fur 
me : and above all. for our poor sick aunt. Fetch your veil, my Clau- 
dia, and I will arrange it for you." 



96 KATHARINA AND BIANCA , 

" You are a kind creature — you always were ;" said Claudia, as An- 
tonia arranged the folds of the veil, and fastened it with the silver pins, 
and ivory comb, so as to set off her sister to the best advantage ; ' : and 
if I should happen to see Camillo in my way, I'll give him your love, 
and tell him the reason you couldn't come. Poor old aunt ! I fancy 
we shan't have to nurse her long. Heigho ! I'll pray for her. Camillo 
will forgive your disappointing him, for the sake of the kindness it proves 
in you, staying to watch by her. He says it's that unselfish goodness in 
you, Antonia, which makes him adore you as he does. So you'll only 
add to his love, you see, by stopping away to-day, after all. Good-bye !" 

Antonia smiled, sighed, kissed her sister, as she returned the " good- 
bye." Then when Claudia had tripped away, and closed the door be- 
hind her, the sigh was repeated ; and for a few moments, the young girl 
remained lost in thought, looking through the window. But rousing 
herself, she said : — Ci I won't think of his disappointment, or my own. 
Let me go up to my aunt ; and see whether she be ready for her ' bolli- 
tura.' " 

Antonia and Claudia were two young Genoese girls. When their 
parents died, they had no relation, but an aunt, a widow, in a thriving 
way of business as a fruiterer. This aunt had taken charge of her two 
orphan nieces, and for some years, entirely supported them, her trade 
sufficing to maintain them all three in comfort But as the sisters grew 
towards womanhood, the aunt's health declined, and it became the duty 
of the two girls to return a part of the kindness they had received at her 
hands, by devoting themselves to the care and nursing of their sick re- 
lation. 

This duty was cheerfully as well as strictly fulfilled by the elder of 
the two nieces, Antonia. But Claudia, the younger, felt a constant at- 
tendance by the bedside of a woman, whom age and infirmity made 
somewhat peevish, irritable, and exacting, to be a most irksome penance, 
which she made no scruple of avoiding, as often as she possibly could. 
The sort of means she took to avoid it, have been already hinted, in the 
dialogue which took place between her sister and herself. 

Claudia was very much prettier than her elder sister, Antonia ; but 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 07 

it was strange. — and truth to say, strangest of all to herself. — that the 
plain Antonia had had many suitors, nay, was actually betrothed to one, 
her own choice, while the pretty Claudia had never been able to boast 
more than a few passing flirtations, — heart-smitten admirers of a week 
or so, — but not one bona-fide proposal. She thought so charming a face 
as she beheld every day in the glass, needed but to be more seen, to 
bring a host of lovers ; and this it was which made her so anxious to 
frequent the most crowded places, when she did go abroad. 

The church of San Lorenzo, on a saint's day, was sure to be the most 
thronged, and most fashionable of all resorts ; and besides. Claudia was 
quite a devotee, — in her way : she knew all the embroidery on -the 
priests' robes by heart ; was enthusiastic in the fineness of the lace round 
the altar-cloths ; doted on the velvet with which the pulpit was hung ; 
was thoroughly versed in every pearl in the waxen madonna's necklace, 
and every gem on her petticoat ; was learned in processions ; could tell 
every saint's day in the calendar, off-hand ; and was ready for every feast, 
moveable or appointed, long before its arrival. Nay, she saved up her 
pocket money scrupulously, to put into the ' tronco dei poveri ;" only, it 
sometimes happened, that a bright ribbon, or a tempting new kerchief, 
would dwindle the destined ' liri ' into a few ' soldi.' 

On the day in question, she had no sooner entered the church, than 
she perceived that her usual seat was occupied by a remarkably good- 
looking young man ; who, however, — on her approaching with a helpless, 
embarrassed air, plainly bespeaking her perplexity and its cause, — im- 
mediately gave up the place he occupied, drawing one of the rush-bottom- 
ed wooden-backed chairs from the nearest stack, and setting it for him- 
self not far from her. 

This courtesy on the stranger's part, necessarily produced some on 
hers. She offered her missal, seeing that the young gentleman was un- 
provided with a book. She held it between them ; and when some of the 
little coloured prints (of saints with up-turned eyes, or of several small 
fat, flaming, cross-laden hearts, toiling up a hill, with dabs of crimson to 
represent bleeding footsteps) that were put into the missal as markers, 
occasionally fluttered out upon the pavement, as they would do, and as 



98 KATHARINA AND BIANCA ] 

they seemed to take a perverse pleasure in doing, Claudia would hurriedly 
stoop to pick them up ; and then the young stranger would gallantly 
prevent her ; and then, when he recovered it, and attempted to replace it. 
Claudia would help him so awkwardly, and with such trembling fingers, 
that the little picture was in danger of tumbling down again, and then 
Claudia would colour a good deal, and look in a terrible state of pretty 
confusion. 

All this improved their acquaintance amazingly ; so that by the time 
mass was over, nothing seemed more natural than that the young gentle- 
man should offer to see her home ; and when she protested she could not 
think of giving him so much trouble, he could do no less than assure her 
that it would be something very different from trouble to him ; and when 
she said : — " Well it was not far, to be sure," he was called upon to say 
that " were it situated at the very farther extremity of Genoa city, he 
should only be the better pleased ; " aud after many of the like remarks — ■ 
no less unexpected, than brilliant and original, she permitted him to escort 
her to her aunt's house : which led to a request on the young gentleman's 
part that he should be allowed to call on the morrow, to enquire after her 
health, and that of her sick relation. In short, this day's church-going 
produced what Claudia had so earnestly desired — an offer of marriage. 

The young man announced, that his name was Baptista Minola, son 
of signor Minola of Paclua ; that he was now at Genoa on business for his 
father ; that he was about to return home ; where he would be sure of a 
double welcome, could he bring so charming a bride in. his hand. 

The match was concluded ; madame Minola took leave of her aunt 
and sister, and set forth with her husband for Padua, protesting with much 
obliging unction, that she should be always glad to hear of their welfare ; 
that she wished her aunt's speedy restoration to health, and hoped it 
might not be long ere her sister was married to her lover, Camillo. " He 
is not a gentleman born, to be sure, like my Baptista ; " said she to An- 
tonia, in the flow of considerate feeling towards her sister, inspired by 
her own superior good fortune ; ' : but he is a very worthy young man — 
an excellent workman, I dare say ; and his exertions will doubtless suffice 
to support you both very comfortably, when you marry. I hope it may 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 09 

be soon for your sake. Antonia. Nothing is more distressing for a girl 
than a protracted engagement, and a long deferred wedding. I trust 
you'll soon be able to send me word that you are a happy wife — as I am." 

■ % My aunt's state of health, will not allow of my thinking of quitting 
her : and heaven forbid, that I should owe my happiness to the death of one 
who has been so good to us. as she has been ; " sighed Antonia. :: I fear 
Camillo and I must not think of marriage for a long time yet awhile." 

"When the bride and bridegroom were departed, the s.ek woman called 
her niece to her bed side, and said — "You are grieved at parting with 
your sister, my Antonia; but we must not regret her, her happiness is 
assured. It is the thought of yours, and of how it may also be secured, 
which occupies me now. I know your attachment for Camillo ; his for 
you. I know how it has been made subservient to your dutiful attention 
towards one who has had it in her power to benefit you. I know how often 
you and he have given up your natural desire to be in each other's soci- 
ety, that you may not let my comforts, or my tendance, be lessened. 
This ought not to be. But I have not the courage to give up my nurse, 
my Antonia, my dear niece. I have thought then, that if Camillo will 
endure the presence of one whom age and infirmity render less patient 
than she ought to be, — if he will consent to the infliction of a burden for 
the sake of the girl he loves, — if he will help her to share its weight, that 
he may secure her society, without withdrawing her from the duty which 
gratitude and her own good feeling impose upon her. — if. in short, he will 
receive us both to his home. I have considered how it may now be ar- 
ranged that your union shall be no longer delayed. The amount of my 
hoarded savings I had intended to bequeath in equal shares to my two 
nieces. Claudia's marriage with a man so well off as her husband is, — 
the son of a rich Paduan gentleman. — renders it unnecessary that any 
of my money should go to her ; and the two portions combined, together 
with what Camillo's skill and industry can command, will amply suffice 
to maintain such a home as your moderate wishes could desire. Why 
then tarry until death shall have put. you in possession of this destined 
sum 1 Why not accept, instead of inherit it ; and give me the happiness 
of enjoying it with my children, instead of the barren comfort of leaving 



100 KATHARINA AND BIANCA ; 

it to them when I am gone ? Let us induce Camillo to think with us. 
and then we may all live as happily together, as an enfeebled frame, and 
the task of ministering to its wants will permit." 

It may well be imagined that the young couple were not slow to 
avail themselves of their generous relation's offer ; and they determined 
that the affection and zeal with which they would make her future hap- 
piness their care, should best prove their gratitude, and make her feel 
that she had gained double tendance by the kindness with which she had 
given up her nurse to be the wife of the man she loved. In the wedded 
home of Camillo and Antonia, the sick and aged aunt was rewarded for 
the protection she had formerly bestowed on the two orphan girls. 

Upon the occasion of her marriage, Antonia wrote to her sister at 
Padua, informing her of her happiness ; and expressing trust that its 
knowledge was the only thing wanting to complete that of Claudia. 

Claudia sent a congratulatory letter in reply ; which concluded with 
a hint that her sister had proved her wisdom in abiding with a relation 
who had wherewithal to recompense attachment. " But do not let the 
thought of having deprived me of my share of our aunt's property, disturb 
you for a moment, Antonia ;" the letter concluded ; u I assure you, I 
have the greatest pleasure in ceding to you whatever portion might have 
been mine, could I have resolved to pain a worthy man's heart by refu- 
sing to be his, on a plea of staying to watch by a sick relation. I should 
wish you never to reproach yourself with having supplanted me in my 
aunt's affection ; I have that of a kind, an indulgent, husband, to console 
me. Nor would I have you reflect upon yourself for having been the sole 
recipient of her bounty. You want it, I do not. I dare say a turner of 
olive wood does not make so large an income, but that a generous aunt's 
contribution to the household must be a consideration — an important 
advantage. I rejoice that you have it, sister. As for me. I have an 
establishment far beyond what my poor humble merits could have enti- 
tled me to. And lately, sigrior Minola's death has made us even richer 
than we were before. The good old man left my Baptista all he was 
worth — and if ever there was a saint in Paradise, that dear good old man 
is surely gone there. That you may enjoy the result of your assiduity 



101 

and vigilant care, unalloyed by one sting of self-reproach, my dear An- 
tonia. is the sincere wish of your 

Affectionate sister and humble servant, 

Claudia Minot.a." 

For some time, no farther communication took place between the 
sisters. After a period of a year or two, however, another letter reached 
Antonia from Padua. It ran thus : — 

' ; Dear sister, 

" Although so long a time has elapsed without your having found 
time or inclination to write to me. I will not reproach you with your 
negligence, or do you the (perhaps) injustice to believe that you are in- 
different to what concerns me. On the contrary, I will flatter myself 
that the news of a circumstance I am about to impart to you, will give 
you as much gratification as it does me. My husband's positioL and 
fortune, the importance of his connections, and the considerable wealth 
he possesses, makes it very desirable that he should have an heir. 
Hitherto, my hopes of bringing him one, have been frustrated. At 
present, I have a prospect of their being realized. My daily and nightly 
prayers have been granted ; my unwearied applications to the saints, 
strengthened and directed by the pious exhortations of my confessor, 
father Bonifacio, have been at length heard, and through their holy inter- 
cession: I am about to be blessed and to bless my husband, with offspring. 
We had some thoughts of asking you and your husband to stand godfather 
and godmother to the expected baby ; but we have since felt it our duty to 
offer the compliment to a neighbour of ours, a landed proprietor, and 
octogenarian. His name is signor Gremio ; he has only one son. a tall 
sickly man, who has overgrown his strength, and whom the doctors think 
unlikely to live. What a terrible thing, the prospect of losing an only 
son ! I already feel by anticipation the power of sympathising with poor 
old signor Gremio. To lose an only child, must be almost as bad as to 
be disappointed in the hope of having an only child at all ! I am sorry 
to hear that you, sister Antonia, have no prospect of becoming a mother. 
Ah, my dear ! it is a blessed prospect, believe me. If you or your hus- 



102 

band should think of treating yourselves at any time with an excursion 
to Padua, with what joy I shall place my dear little expected son in your 
arms. But I suppose you will not think of leaving our dear aunt, poor 
old soul ! Well, you do quite right not to give her up ; she has made it 
worth your while to show your attachment to her. You were always a 
wiser-headed girl than your poor little sister, Claudia. Discretion, 
gravity, steadiness and prudence in the discharge of your worldly duties, 
were always a part of your character, Anton ia. Humility, with a meek 
hope of recommending herself to the guardianship of the saints, was ever 
the utmost aim of her who subscribes herself 

Your devoted sister, 

Claudia Minola." 

With unfeigned pleasure, Antonia received these tidings of her 
sister's prosperity ; though the old smile w*s repeated as she read Claudia's 
self-complacency under the guise of self-depreciation ; inuendo under 
that of commendation, triumph under that of pity ; while the old sigh 
was breathed again, as she owned that the pity was needed. The one 
blessing of children had been denied their home ; and the want of that 
one blessing had rendered their domestic joys incomplete, even in their 
fulness. 

But the happiness they had hitherto possessed was suddenly inter- 
rupted by the death of the good aunt. She was sincerely mourned by 
Antonia ; who, attached to her by the double tie of gratitude, and affec- 
tionate care, felt her loss deeply. 

Camillo therefore, was well pleased when another letter arrived from 
madam e Minola, inviting her sister to Padua to stand godmother to the 
baby that was now born ; as an unexpected circumstance had altered 
their views with respect to asking old signor Gremio's sponsorship. 

" I suppose they have found out the old gentleman's coffers to be less 
well stored than they imagined ;" thought Camillo ; " or possibly, the son 
may be pronounced in better health, or be about to marry, and the estates 
discovered to be entailed — or some equally potent reason for making the 
senior signor Gremio a less eligible godfather to the heir of the Minolas 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 103 

than was at first supposed. But however that may be. I am not sorry 
they have asked my Antonia to be gossip on the occasion ; as the change 
will do her good. She shall set out for Padua immediately." 

Antonia would fain have had her husband accompany her : but he 
pointed out that he had not been included in the invitation, — that he 
could not well manage to leave business for a mere pleasure-trip, — and 
that it WcTs as much as they ought in prudence to afford, the cost of her 
journey, and the necessary outlay for a christening-gift. 

i; Thy sister is quite right in supposing that an ' ebanista' is no rich 
trader, Antonia ;" said he smiling ; but it makes the compliment her 
affection pays us, all the greater, in wishing to have thee for her child's 
godmother ; I'm right glad to see Claudia hath so much good feeling. 
Her babe shall have the richest-carved cradle I can send her." 

Antonia was received with much show of hospitality and kindness by 
Baptista Minola and his wife ; but it struck her, that in her sisters 
manner there was a strange embarrassment, when she begged to see her 
child. 

" I long to see the little fellow — to clasp him in my arms — to hug 
him, and tell him how glad I shall be to have him for a godson, dear 
Claudia ; where is he ? " 

' ; The child shall be brought forthwith — sit down Antonia — thou 
must needs be tired with thy journey. Some wine and fruit shall be set 
herein the orchard, till the more substantial meal be ready." 

Bu£ at this moment, the nurse approached, bearing in her arms a 
small recumbent individual, swathed into a stiff bundle, adorned with 
knots of ribands, who could be no other than the heir of the Minolas. 
It was plentifully be-hung with relics in proper preparatory christening- 
trim ; and had been duly deluged with holy-water, until the necessarily 
deferred ceremonial could take place. 

Antonia exclaimed ci Here he is ! Give him to me, nurse ! " 

" ' He,' ma'am ! It's a she, ma'am ! It's no him, but a blessed hei 
— a little girl, ma'am ! " said the nurse. 

" Yes, it's too true, Antonia : " said her sister. " My expected son 
proved to be a little girl, after all. It's a sad disappointment : we could 



104 

not think of asking signor Gremio to be godfather to anything less than 
an heir, you know ; so we put off begging him to become sponsor till 
another time. Next baby, we shall hope to be more fortunate. But we 
thought you wouldn't mind a girl, and so " 

Madame Minola stammered, and left her speech unfinished ; but her 
sister hastened to relieve her, by the assurance that the baby would be 
no less dear to her for being a girl than a boy, and that she was quite as 
much delighted with a goddaughter as with a godson. 

'-' How like the world that is ! " murmured madame Minola. " It 
takes but a one-sided view of most things — a limited — a merely selfish 
view ! Of course it can signify little to you, as a godmother, whether 
your godchild be a girl or a boy ; but you forget what a mother feels on 
such a point. True, you are not a mother yourself, and can therefore 
little enter into the force of a mother's feelings. Still, I think, you 
might have expressed a little more sympathy with your sister's disap- 
pointment, Antonia. You might have felt, that she naturally sighed to 
present her husband with an heir to his large property ; but you always 
were cold and prudent — vastly more so than your poor sister, who can- 
not help feeling warmly where she loves. I own I am so attached to my 
husband, as to regret bitterly not having brought him a son — but doubt- 
less you are wiser in your coldness, than I in my warmth. Besides, it 
is the saints' will — (at least, this time) — and to that I submit." 

" And how do you mean to name the little creature ? " said Antonia, 
bending over it, to conceal whatever emotion her sister's words might 
have called forth. 

Why, Baptista at first thought of calling it by yours, as a compli- 
ment to godmamma ; which, of course, was all very kind and consider- 
ate on his part : but I told him I knew you had too much good sense 
to feel hurt, if I preferred having it called according to a very particular 
wish of my own." 

" And what is your favorite name, my sister ? " asked Antonia. 

" it is not a mere favorite name — one name is well-nigh as pretty 
as another, for that matter ; it's no such frivolous motive as that, which 
determines me, I assure you, sister ;" said Claudia with a look of injured 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 105 

innocence ; " I should have liked your name very well — as it's the same 
with our blessed St. Antonio of Padua — the patron-saint of our city ; 
but as the babe was born on the feast of Santa Katharina, I should like 
her to be called after that holy martyr. So my husband has consented 
to give up his whim in deference to my wish. Certainly, its proceeding 
purely from a pious motive, entitles it to some consideration." 

Claudia paused, for some assent to her last proposition ; but as her 
sister offered none, she proceeded. 

•• It is rarely that I find any one take things in the same fervent 
point of view that I do ; I remember of old, Antonia, you never sympa- 
thized with my ardour for church-going, — my zeal in the endeavour hum- 
bly to fulfil my religious duties ; it is scarcely to be attributed to you 
as a fault ; we are not all constituted alike ; some are of a more enthu- 
siastic temperament than others. — and certainly, the phlegmatic ratun- 
ality. and cool-judging prudence of your character is far more philoso- 
phical, and far more useful, in a worldly point of view, than my ardent 
and impulsive disposition. But I am content to be as I am, and to set 
my heart upon things not altogether mundane." 

She here heaved a soft sigh of self-satisfaction, and paused again ; 
but finding that Antonia still preserved silence, she went on. 

u As I was saying, few people contemplate things in the far-viewed 
and earnest way that I do. Now, if I thought that calling my child 
Antonia would propitiate the patron saint of our Padua, so that he 
would send me a boy next time, to present to my husband, I would have 
her baptized by that name at once; but upon mature deliberation, and 
after frequent consultations with padre Bonifacio, I am induced to think 
there is more to be hoped from naming her after the holy virgin-martyr, 
Santa Katharina, on whose festival she was born." 

However, madame Minola's hopes of a son were destined never to be 
realized. Whether owing to an error in the naming of her first-born, or 
not, — certain it is, that her second child was also a girl. The poor lady 
took this reiterated disappointment (looking upon it as really quite a 
pointed thing on the part of Fate and the Saints, after she had taken 
such anxious pains to discover the best means of conciliating them) so 



106 

much to heart, that she sank into weak health ; and even her boasted 
energy in church-going could not avail to rouse her from her easy chair 
which she thenceforward constantly occupied. But she solaced her 
pride of devoteeism, by continual interviews with her father confessor ; 
in padre Bonifacio's presence, in his ghostly exhortation, in his comfort- 
able counsel she strove to cherish that warmth of zeal, on which she had 
always so much plumed herself. 

By the time her two little girls had reached an age most to require 
her active superintendence, she had become a confirmed invalid ; never 
leaving her arm-chair, but for her bed ; or her bed, but for her arm- 
chair. 

The elder of the two, Katharina, was a spirited, lively child, whose 
unchecked sallies were fast becoming flippancy ; whose glibness of retort, 
and unbridled freedom of tongue were speedily leading her into insuffer- 
able pertness. At first, the child's quickness caused her to be laughed 
at, and encouraged in her proneness to make saucy answers ; but gradu- 
ally they were found to be annoying, rather than amusing ; rude, instead 
of droll and pretty. But there was no judicious mother, to train the in- 
solence into sprightliness, to subdue the malapertness into harmless 
mirth, and to soften the character, by teaching her to mingle gentleness 
and kind-meaning with her native vivacity — which might thus have been 
mere pleasant and winning playfulness. 

Instead of forming her child's disposition, and giving a wholesome 
tendency to such points of character, as might have grown into attractive 
qualities, with proper restriction and worthy culture, madame Minola 
was deep in some controversial discussion with father Bonifacio on the 
relative merits of St. Poppo and St. Macarius : as to whether the latter 
saint's pious zeal in courting gnat-bites, or St. Simeon Stylites' singular 
taste in lodgings, deserved the greater reverence, and emulation ; in 
doting upon the humility of St. Anthony, who took to mat-making, or 
the never-sufliciently-to-be-admired St. John Chrysostom, who, with a 
conscience more queasy than his stomach, ' used the same stinking oil 
for his food as his lamp ;' and sometimes she would discuss another holy 
man's bland opinion respecting the span length of those infant souls 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 107 

aondemned to an eternity of torture. While she should have been watch- 
ing the delects in her child's temper, and striving to counteract them by 
substituting or developing better feelings, she was engaged in reading 
the lives of the saints, or listening to a history of the miraculous transit 
of the house ofLoretto. 

When the defects had ripened into faults, for want of early disci- 
pline and care ; when, of the child who might have become a merry- 
hearted creature, with enough of roguery in her sallies to keep all those 
about her on the alert, and who might have won all their loves with her 
raillery and playful replies, was made a pert unpleasant chit. — then she 
punished. Punishment, strict, summary, and inexorable, was resorted 
to, for a cure of those evils, which ought rather to have been timely pre- 
vented. 

Bianca, the younger, was a child of totally different disposition. 
She was quiet, watchful, and unopposing. That which exasperated her 
more petulant sister into angry retort, or furious defiance, she would re- 
ceive with a meek shrug, or a placid remonstrance. She shrank from 
contention; avoided scrapes; evaded difficulties. She seldom provoked 
censure, and always contrived to escape correction. She was so passive, 
that she seemed to have no will ; but she could be meekly stubborn, and 
had a remarkable method of getting her own way. She made no show 
of determination, but she rarely failed of compassing anything she de- 
sired. • She seemed incapable of resistance, yet generally succeeded in 
effecting none but her particular plans. She never appeared to contest 
a point with any one, but somehow, all yielded to her wish. She had 
quite a neat little faculty of her own for gaining her ends, together with 
the good will and liking of everybody. She was a general favorite ; 
her nnthwarting manners, her innocent air, her mild speech, her soft, de- 
precating looks, rendered her popular, and secured her a universal good 
word. All were ready to give her a good character. She passed for 
very obliging, though she used little exertion for any one ; but then she 
never offended any body's prejudices. She had a reputation for gentle- 
ness and modesty ; for she scarcely seemed to have an opinion of her 
own — and certainly never bluntly expressed one. People thought her 



1 08 KATHARINA AND B1ANCA ] 

full of sweetness, because she had none of her sister's tartness, — which 
always particularly shocked her ; and found her very amiable, since she 
never affronted them, or wounded their self-love. 

Bianca's being so shocked at Katharina's defects, gained her im- 
mense credit in public opinion ; it placed her beyond all suspicion of 
sharing or countenancing such misconduct, and avouched her own superi- 
ority. Public opinion ranked the one sister as highly, as it rated low 
the other. It took the two girls on their own estimate of the value of 
its regard. Katharina cared little for the world's opinion, — slighted it, 
— set it at defiance ; while Bianca bent to it. — deprecated its censure — 
courted its approval, in her every demure word and look. The world 
requited each of them, accordingly. 



One of the persons who especially excited Katharina's dislike, and 
who. in consequence, was frequently the object of her impertinence, was 
padre Bonifacio. She did not dare treat him thus in her mother's pres- 
ence, knowing how highly esteemed the confessor was by raadame Minola. 
but she took every other opportunity of marking her contempt. 

If he passed her, coming in, or going out, of the house, in return for 
hismurmered " Benedicite, child ! " she would make the 'jettatura' at 
him, or look over her shoulder towards him, and say: — "You're there, 
are you ? How do ? " or nod slightly, without so much as glancing up, 
saying : — ■• Good-day: good-day ! " This, the worthy gentleman scarcely 
observed ; partly, because he was deaf; partly, because he thought the 
pertness of the child not worth notice ; partly, because his spirit of meek- 
ness forbade resentment. 

Once when he called her towards him, and, placing his hand on her 
head paternally, gave her some message for her mother, she slily put up 
her hand, and held her nose, while he continued speaking. The good 
man did not perceive her having done so ; but her sister Bianca did ; 
and when he had departed, asked Katharina what was her reason. 

" The odour of sanctity was too much forme;" replied she. "I'm 
not worthy to stand so near it, I suppose. Of course, the reason friars 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 109 

wear baize gowns, is because woollen retains fumes well — the fume of 
holiness." 

'•'• For shame, sister ! " exclaimed Bianca ; " what would our mother 
say?" 

;; She would have me whipped, to teach me a keener relish for whole- 
some smells : but it'll take a great deal of whipping to make me bear 
the same amount of sanctity that she can. But then, she's so very good, 
you know ; and I'm always naughty — at least, if I'm to judge by the 
many whippings and penances I get." 

At last. Katharina forgot herself to padre Bonifacio in her mother's 
presence. She was running into her mother's room to call Bianca to 
dinner. Seeing the confessor there, she exclaimed -'Ah, you're there, 
are you? How do? How do, and good-bye, — for dinner's serving, I'm 
hungry, and the sooner you're gone the better." 

" How now, child ! Is that the way you speak to the holy father ! 
I'm amazed at you ! If ever I hear such a style of addressing his rev- 
erence again, you know what shall be your punishment." 

' : Yes, yes, I know ; " then turning to the padre, she repeated " Good- 
bye, good-bye! And good-bye to my dinner too ; " added she ; " for I 
know I shall have to dine off dry bread now." 

Dry bread for dinner was so frequently her punishment, that she tried 
to strip it of its terrors, and to vent her indignation against it, by turning 
it into.jest, and inventing witticisms upon the subject. On one occasion, 
when her father bade her to come to table, she curtsied saucily, and said, 
" Thank you, pa' ; but I don't dine at home to-day ; I dine at my ordi- 
nary." 

" Thine ordinary, child ! What dost mean ?" 

" Dry bread j that's my ordinary ; I ordinarily dine upon it ; and 
ordinary fare it is. I can tell you !" 

Once her sister passed her, while she was eating her allotted portion 
in a corner, and she said : — " Look here, Bianca ! Here's bread ! such 
dry bread — bread that I don't ask for — but the} r give me a stone ; it's 
as hard as a stone. Hardly I'm used by these stony-hearted creatures !' 

"Bemember, you speak of our parents j" said Bianca. 



110 KATHARINA AND BIANCA ] 

-I thought parents were to treat their children tenderly!" retorted 
she. " Here's tender treatment ! Here's tenderness for you! — no, — for 
me ! Here's softness ! Here's delicacy ! Why it's like a brick ! I can't 
get my teeth into it. I shouldn't be surprised if it were to break them. 
Marble or granite, — more fit to pave a church, or build a bridge, or a jail 
with, than to feed a daughter upon ! It's a week old, if it's a day. No 
wonder it makes me crusty ] I shall turn into a crust, if they give me 
much more of it." 

Another time, she gave her mother a hint of her disgust, by inserting 
a clause in the prayer she was repeating by her side. Madan e Minola 
was very scrupulous in hearing her children repeat morning and night 
a long string of words arranged into prayers ; but which she never gave 
herself the trouble to explain to them, nor thought to ascertain whether 
they understood the spirit and meaning of that which they uttered. They 
were even allowed ignorantly to parrot the most divine of prayers. 

Now, when Katharina came to the petition for ' daily bread,' she 
added : — " with meat to it." 

" Profane child !" said her mother. 

i: Well, I do wish I could now and then get my daily bread with some 
butter upon it, or a handful of fruit, to help me down with it ; it does 
stick in my throat so, day after day, you can't think ; it is so very dry 
and daily." 

In short, poor Katharina was becoming, fast, a settled naughty child ; 
a little reprobate, hardened in her contumacy, — her rebellious ways of 
thinking and speaking. Always in disgrace ; never repenting. Per- 
petually being punished ; never amending. Her insolence, her pertness, 
her bad-temper, seemed to be given up as a hopeless case. She was 
looked upon as incorrigibly perverse, altogether disagreeable, and in- 
curable. A domestic nuisance — but irremediable, though intolerable. 
People shrugged their shoulders, and endured her— -as well as they could. 
She became an object of universal dislike and avoidance. 

About this time, her godmother, aunt Antonia, came to Padua on a 
visit. 

Madame Minola made many pathetic complaints to her sister, re- 



THE SHREW. AND THE DEMURE. Ill 

specting the plague Katharina's unhappy disposition vras to them all : 
bemoaned herself that she should have given birth to such a wayward 
wicked child : and wondered what she had done to deserve such an in- 
fliction. 

- For an infliction she certainly is, sister. Her naughtiness makes 
her odious to every one. But. I fear, there's no help for it." 

" Why so, sister 1 She may be reclaimed, and made a comfort to 
you and her father, as well as to every one else, herself included. For 
the poor little thing, as she is. cannot be very comfortable or happy — to 
be thus at variance with all her friends.'" 

" Oh. as for her— I've no concern for her discomfort : she don't de- 
serve that I should. A perverse, ill-conditioned, troublesome little 
hussy ! I've no patience with her !" said the mother. 

-I fear so:" answered the aunt quietly. " But . cannot see why she 
might not be made a better child : she is naturally high-spirited — full of 
vivacity — these form an admirable basis for character, if onlv directed 
properly. A friend she could esteem and respect might do much with 
that nature, or I'm greatly mistaken." 

" Esteem ! Hespect •! She has neither, for any one ! "Why. she does 
not respect her parents — or even padre Bonifacio ! She minds nobody — ■ 
she's utterly graceless and worthless : and hasn't a notion of obeying any- 
thing but her own whims of pertness and insufferable rudeness." 

■• Might not some better notion be instilled into her 1 Might she not 
be taught regard for others: — deference, obedience, docility? It is 
hard to set down one so young as incorrigible. It is dangerous to give 
a child a character for any particular fault : it too frequently fixes the 
attribute. A child hearing itself constantly called sulky, or indolent, or 
headstrong, or pert, will learn to consider itself so. and come to act upon 
the character it has received. It acquires the habit of thinking of itself 
thus, and to believe that there is no use in attempting to be otherwise. 
It finds no better expected of it. and becomes confirmed in its original 
defect : which probably, by other treatment, might have been destroyed, 
— or at any rate, weakened." 

- It's all very fine talking, sister ;" returned madame 3Iinola : " you 



112 

were always famous for thinking you could perform a duty better than 
any body else. But try the child yourself ; and you'll soon see whether 
she's to be made anything of, except the pert rudesby I've told you she 
is." 

" I will try. my dear sister, since you give me leave ;" said Antonia ; 
" I will try to win her confidence — to see if I can't bring her to speak a 
little with me. She may be more tractable -than you imagine. We have 
not seen much of each other, hitherto ; but I am not without hope of 
leading her to love her aunt and godmother." 

" Do as you please, sister ;" replied madam e Minola. " I'm sure, if 
you've any fancy for taking a troublesome brat in hand, I shall not hin- 
der you. But you always were famous for liking to undertake disagree- 
able tasks. You found your account in one, certainly ; I wish you equal 
success in this." 

Antonia was a staid sensible woman, with an inexhaustible stock of 
patience. When her niece Katharina found that she bore with her pert 
manners, never reproached her about them, never made them matter of 
remark, but answered her words quietly, and with entire disregard of 
the flippancy which too often accompanied them, she gradually dropped 
her insolent tone, when they spoke together ; this led to a greater ease ; 
the ease to a sense of comfort : the comfort to a feeling of liking for the 
person with whom she was thus comfortable ; and so on, until she grew 
to entertain a stronger regard for her aunt Antonia, than she had ever 
before felt towards any human being. 

When Antonia perceived that she had established this feeling of pre- 
ference and confidence in her niece's mind, she ventured gently to re- 
monstrate with her, as one friend might do with another, upon such 
points of her character, as most needed admonition. 

" My dear child, what makes you behave so contemptuously to padre 
Bonifacio?" said she to Katharina, one morning, as they sat together at 
work in the parlour, through which the father confessor passed on his 
way to madame Minola's room, upon observing the little girl give him 
one of her impertinent nods. 

" I don't behave contemptuously to him. I don't care a fig about 
him. I detest him." 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. K3 

" Why should you detest him?" said her aunt; contenting herself 
with replying to one only of her inconsistent sentences. 

<: 0. I doirt know — I hate him — he has such a smeary voice ; such 
nasty wheedling ways ; such a creeping step. When he throws back his 
cowl, he has drops dotted all over his bald head — like rain on a cabbage- 
leaf; and he wears such a filthy old baize gown. I hate the very sight 
of him." 

'• But have you never considered that his presence gives your mother 
great comfort ; that she esteems and reveres him ; and that it must give 
her great pain, to see him treated with rudeness?" 

" I don't treat him with rudeness — that is, I don't care how I treat 
him. — for I loathe him — a dirty old man !" 

•• But your mother sees something in him besides a dirty old man. 
She sees an attached friend, a faithful guide, a kind pastor : one to whom 
she is accustomed to look up for counsel and assistance ; one whom she 
regards with veneration and gratitude. Ought not you to behave to- 
wards him a little more in accordance with her opinion of him, than 
with yours ? Do you not think it would be well to try and see him in 
the light that she does, for her sake ?" 

- Why should I try to oblige her, when she's so cross and unkind to 
me ?" said Katharina. i: I never go near her but she scolds me. or finds 
fault with something I say or do. Why should I do any thing to oblige 
her?" . 

'• Because she's your mother ;" said Antonia emphatically. 

'• I know that, of course ; but" — Katharina was proceeding : but as 
she looked up, she caught her aunt's eye fixed steadily upon her. There 
was a grave earnestness in its expression, that the child could not with- 
stand, and her own eyelids drooped beneath the gaze. 

Presently she said in a low tone: — " Mother's so peevish." 

'• So might you be peevish, had you as much pain to bear, as she has. 
Night and day, — day after day, and night after night, your mother suf- 
fers many hours of racking pain. When you are calmly sleeping in 
your bed, she tosses to and fro, restless, weary, wakeful with her pain. 
When you are running about the garden, happily playing, your limbs in 



1 * 4 KATHARINA AND BIANCA ; 

action, your spirits gay, she is confined to her invalid-chair, vainly seek* 
ing to find a respite from pain, even in repose. Well may she be fret- 
ful, having to endure so much, from which there is scarcely a prospect of 
release, save in death. The time may come, my dear Katharina, when, 
too late, you may wish that you had never been the means of adding to 
all this pain she has had to undergo ; that you had borne her fretfulness 
better ; that you had never been guilty of disrespect towards her. You 
will then regret having ill-treated one whom she regards." 

" I will try and think of this, when next I see padre Bonifacio :" 
sobbed the little girl ; for she was crying now, at her aunt's words ; " I'll 
try and behave better to him ; indeed I will." 

" Come to me, my dear child ; " said her aunt, soothingly. I would 
not have given you this pain, but that I knew it would rouse you to bet- 
ter feelings, and better conduct. My little Katharina does not want for 
an affectionate heart ; and that will teach her to be all we could wish, in 
time." 

And so, perhaps, it might have been ; had that heart continued be- 
neath the guidance of the judicious friend who now sought to awaken 
its gentler impulses. But the attempt had scarce been made, ere it was 
unavoidably abandoned. Antonia was suddenly recalled to Genoa by a 
summons from her husband, who had injured his hand with a sharp- 
edged tool ; it was feared, so deeply, that there was a doubt whether he 
would ever recover its use sufiiciently for future work. Thus it proved ; 
and Camillo's inability to labour for their support, involving the neces- 
sity of his wife's exerting herself to earn bread for them both, prevented 
her ever returning to Padua. 

By this unfortunate occurrence, the first beneficial influence that had 
ever been exercised over Katharina's mind and heart, was withdrawn ; 
the patient care, the winning kindness, the gentle yet earnest words 
which might have curbed all that was wrong, while they fostered all that 
was generous and right, were removed ; and the poor little girl, in the 
weakness of unaided childhood, soon fell into her former petulance, and 
wrong-headed ways. 

Before, however, the effect of her aunt's visit upon Katharina had 



THE SHREW. AND THE DEMURE. 115 

faded, her mother suddenly died. The unexpectedness of the event; 
the remembrance of her aunt's words ; this speedy fulfilment of what 
they had hinted at as probable, combined to overwhelm the child with 
remorse. She felt with all the keenness of her vehement nature. She 
suffered the tortures of an accusing conscience, when she remembered 
her frequent insolence to the mother who was gone for ever. She writh- 
ed with the pangs of self-reproach and unavailing repentance, as she 
recalled how often she had been disobedient, rude, and disregardful to 
the suffering invalid, who would never return to the sick chair she had 
so long occupied, and before which Katharina now flung herself on her 
knees, in a transport of vain sorrow. 

She abandoned herself to the most passionate grief. Her pillow 
that night was literally wet with her tears. She flung herself to and fr6 
in the terrible unrest of remorse, — even worse than that of sickness, 
which had been her mother's. But as she thought of the many wakeful 
nights that mother had passed, thus, like herself, unable to get peace or 
ease, her tears and sobs burst out afresh. 

Her sleepless night sent her with white cheeks, swollen eyes, and 
choking throat, next morning, to the breakfast-table. 

Her sister placed food before her. 

" How d'ye expect me to eat, when my throat's full ? I can't swal- 
low," she >aid. 

- Thy grief's too shrewish-violent to last, I fear me, Katharina:' 
said her father. " Thou wert ever too untoward with thy mother when 
she lived, to let us think thou mourn'st her very sincerely now she's dead. 
Dry thy crocodile tears ; and have done with this show of grief." 

words of reproach ! No mustard-grain seems smaller seed, yet 
what fearful sowing is yours ! Words of reproach lightly let fall, yet 
yielding poisonous blossoms ! "Words of reproach, dropped unheeded, 
yet bringing forth deadliest fruit ! And no soil so fatally sure to nurture 
them into this baleful maturity as the domestic hearth. Let those who 
would preserve home in peace and happiness beware of even the shadow 
of reproach. It is thistle-down for seeming insignificancy — but of like 
insidious propagation. It is gone with a breath — takes flight, and is 



116 

forgotten by him who carelessly puffs it forth ; but it scatters mischief, 
and generates evil. 

Her father's reproach roused all that was bad in Katharina's dispo- 
sition. Those tears of hers, might have been turned to gentle account ; 
her young sorrow might have been the means of drawing her to softening 
thoughts, and worthy resolutions : but she was taunted with them as 
insincere, when she knew them to be genuine : she was reproached with 
them as a nretence, when she felt they were only too true ; and she re- 
solved henceforth to hide them, — to struggle with them,' — to crush and 
repress her sorrow as something that was misunderstood by others, and 
painful to herself. 

As a natural consequence, she grew more hard and saucy than ever. 
She was not only acerb and disrespectful in speech ; but she indulged in 
all sorts of perverse contemptuous ways. She would go about the house 
on a Sunday, between mass and vespers, with a needle and thread stuck 
on her side, or with her knitting-pins peeping from her apron-pocket ; 
and if remonstrated with, would reply : — " Well, I haven't been working, 
you know ; I've been to mass as well as you." 

On a fast day, she would make a parade of throwing a beef-bone, or 
a mutton shank to the dog ; and when the expostulation came, which she 
hoped would follow, she gloried in answering :— " The dog has no soul, 
I suppose? Where's the harm of letting him have a meal of meat? He 
needn't fast ; it's quite enough, methinks, if we do." 

A letter addressed to her father, was allowed to wait several hours 
in a corner on a table; and when he asked her why she had not men- 
tioned it to him, she said : — " You told me- to hold my tongue, this 
morning : how should I speak to you, or tell you anything ? How did 
I know but you might bid me be silent again ; or chide me for being 
officious?" 

Another time, when a lad brought him a message, Katharina hap- 
pening to open the door, slammed it to again in the messenger's face : 
and afterwards this- was her excuse ; " You said you wouldn't be dis- 
turbed ; how should I dream you didn't mean what you said ? If you 
knew your own mind a little better, I might know how to please ye. 
mayhap !" 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 117 

u . Thou hast a parlous curst temper of thine own, girl, that's a sure 
thing ;" said her father. "Why canst not take pattern by thy sister? 
See how biddable and mild she is. Canst not try to be like her?" 

" No, I can't : and what's more, I won't. I wouldn't be such a piece 
of bread-and-butter goodness as she is, even if I could. Why, if a wasp 
were to settle on her hand, she'd allow it to stay and sting her, rather 
than brush it rudely away. She'd let a mad cow toss her, before she'd 
frighten the poor thing by flirting a kerchief in its face. Her toes might 
be trodden upon till they were smashed flat, ere she'd hurt a person's 
feelings by begging they'd mind where they were stepping. None of 
your spiritless milk-and-water virtue for me, I thank ye, pa' !" 

" Better an' thou hadst a little of her want of spirit, perhaps ; thou 
hast far too much of thine own, child. But thou'lt never be as good as 
she is !" said the father. 

" Heaven forbid !" she replied. 

' ; Thou pray'st amiss, wench ; well would it be for thyself — and still 
better for us all. wert thou likely to be but half as good. But e'en that 
much, thou'lt never be." 

" Never !" she exclaimed. " Never ; so long as you keep holding her 
up as a pattern and a model to me. I hate model people They're odious 
in themselves; odious in their popularity ; v for ever perched up on a 
brazen p * iestal of conceit and approval." 

""Go to ; I'm weary of thy froward humours ;" said Baptista. " Be- 
gone, I say, and send thy sister hither to me." 

' ; Thank you, pa', for dismissing me ; I'm as weary of my stay, as 
you can be. You don't send me from you more willingly that I go, 1 
promise ytu." 



There was a large entertainment given at the country-house of signior 
G-remio, to which signior Minola's little girls, among other young people, 
were invited. The old gentleman had made the party a juvenile one, in 
compliment to his son; whom he considered still a boy, though he, was 
past forty years of age. The octogenarian had so long been in the habit 



118 KATHARINA AND BIANCA ] 

of looking upon him as a child, compared with himself, that he really 
thought of him in no other light. The son had always been called young 
signior Gremio, to distinguish him from his father ; and this had farther 
helped the notion. 

There was to be dancing ; sports and games of all kinds : and a tent 
was spread in the grounds, with refreshments, and a cold collation. The 
old gentleman bustled about with as much animation as his tottering 
limbs would allow ; rubbing his hands, and taking great interest in see- 
ing that all his young guests were duly amused. 

"Where's my boy?" he would exclaim at intervals; " Oh, yonder; 
I see him. Among that group of lads, watching their game of mora ; but 
he should be over here, helping me to receive his young lady guests. 
But he'll be here presently, my dears ; never fear, never fear." 

" I don't ; " said Katharina. 

" That's very good of you, my dear. And when he comes, I'll make 
him get up a dance, and he shall be your partner. But, you see, I don't 
like to disturb him from what amuses him ; it's natural for young people 
to amuse themselves ; yes, yes, I can make allowances ; young people will 
be young people." 

" Not always, — sometimes they're elderly ; " said she. " But I sup- 
pose you can make allowance even for elderly young people. When he's 
as old as you are, perhaps he'll be more steady ; " added she, glancing at 
the old man's shaking head, and trembling hands. 

" I'm afraid you're a bit of a rogue, Miss Katharina ; " said the good- 
natured old gentleman, not willing to perceive any malice in her obser- 
vation ; " you're a wit, quite a wit, I declare, — and wits are apt to be 
sad rogues." 

" That's not saying much for their liveliness ; " said she. " But here 
comes your middle-aged man, — your boy, I mean." 

" My dear boy," said his father, "■ here are some young ladies dying 
with impatience for a dance. Set one afoot, pr'ythee ; and set their 
pretty feet in motion, as soon as may be, — there's no time to be lost." 

" No truly ; " said Katharina ; - our dancing days may be too soon 
over." 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 119 

'• Will miss Bianca favor me with her hand ? " said the son, with a 
flourish of his hat under his arm. 

•' My sister has too much grace, to like to see grey hairs stand un- 
covered before her ;" said Katharina. ;i Pray put on your hat, signior, 
lest you take cold in your head." 

v - Fie, sister: how can you?" murmured Bianca, as she put her 
hand into the gentleman's arm ; who led her away, looking mightily dis- 
concerted. 

You mustn't be left without a partner, my dear miss ; " said the old 
gentleman to Katharina. " Let's see what we can do for you. Here, 
Giulio ! " cried he. calling to a young lad, who was cracking and eating 
£ pignoli ' at a little distance ; ' ; come hither, child ; and offer thy hand 
to this young lady. 

The lad lounged towards them, glanced at Katharina's face, and said, 
" I'm afraid." 

" ; Afraid ! ' I shan't eat it ; " said she. 

"I don't know that ; " he answered. " You look as if you'd snap at 
anything, that conies in your way. I shouldn't wonder if you'd bite my 
nose off. an' I said anything you didn't fancy." 

- Like enough ; " said she. ' : If you deserved it, you'd catch it, I 
promise you ; I'm not one to stick at an3 T thing when I'm affronted ; I 
care not who knows as much." 

""' Catch it?' Catch what? Some of your bites or scratches, I sup- 
pose ; but as I've no fancy for scars, I shan't trust my skin near you. nor 
offer my hand to any such miss Miscetta, I thank you, miss Minola," 

" Do you call me a cat, sirrah ? " said she, with sparkling eyes. 

" Gently, gently, my good master Giulio ; are these your manners to 
a lady?" 

" I see no lady ;" said the lad. 

" Well, well ; to this young gentlewoman." 

" Nor gentlewoman neither ; certainly, no gentle woman." 

" Well, well ; to this little girl. Dear, dear, what am I to do with 
these quarrelsome chile ren !" exclaimed the old gentleman in great per- 
plexity. i; My dears, will you do me the favor to be good, till somebody 



120 

comes to help me make you friends? will you be so obliging as to keep 
quiet, just for a minute, till I can call somebody to part you? 0, here, 
son Gremio ! — I'm glad the dance is Qver ; you're come in happy time 
to preserve peace. Our young friends are falling out. I fear me." 

" Come you with me, Giulio ;" said the younger signior Gremio j 
" let you and me go seek some refreshment for these young ladies; they 
must need something cool after all this heat and dancing." 

" Bring some ' cedrata,' or ' limonata ;' they are iced, and will be 
pleasant ;" said his father. 

" Better a little l semata ;' are not the others too sour, think you, sir V 
said Giulio ; " we have acid enough, already." 

" Be off with ye, child ; and do as my son would have you. He'll 
find what is fitting, and nice, I'll warrant me ;" said the old gentleman, 
pushing the boy away by the shoulder ; but unable to forbear smiling. 

" Pert monkey !" muttered Katharina. 

" Never mind him, my dear ;" said her host. He doesn't mean any 
harm, bless you ; it's only his joke. Giulio's always full of his jokes. 
My son don't mind him. My boy rather likes him ; they're quite friends 
and comrades." 

' : I wish he'd keep his jokes for his friend, then, — and for those who 
like 'em — I don't ;" said she ; " and if he treats me to any more of them, 
I shall just " 

She was interrupted by the return of the younger signior Gremio 
with some fruit and cakes, which he presented to the sisters. 

Katharina had no sooner helped herself to some strawberries, than 
master Giulio stepped forward, and pouring some cream over them, said 
mischievously, " mew, mew ; have a little milk, pussy ?" 

The next instant, the whole contents of her plate were chucked in 
his face. 

" My dears, — my dears, — pray — pray !" said the old gentleman. 

" Now why should she be so enraged when I liken her to a cat, if she 
didn't feel the truth of the portrait ?" laughed Giulio, who had burst 
into a roar of enjoyment, as he received the deluge of strawberries and 
cream " I'll be bound her sister wouldn't be angry, though, if I should 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 121 

tell her she were like a cat, — and yet she has nearly as much of a cat in 
her, as 'tother." 

" Who I ?" said Bianca, in soft wonder. 

" Yes, you. you ; mew. mew;" said the boy, mimicking her way ol 
speaking. " You sit there, with your fore-feet primly before you ; your 
eyes opening and shutting, demurely winking; your sleek looks, and 
your pur-pur-purry voice. And then you've got such velvet paws ;" 
said he. touching the back of her hand. 

They couldn't help laughing, Bianca included. 

"Are they so very soft?" said she, smoothing her hand against the 
boy's ruddy cheek. 

"Yes ; I hope they conceal no claws ;" said he. 

" Don't make too sure of that ;" said Katharina ; " velvet paws can 
put forth talons as sharp as razors, — and that, when you think it least." 

"At any rate, they're kept in reserve ;" said he ; " they don't appear 
till occasion calls them forth ; even that's better than those horrible 
claws which are displayed at all seasons, unsheathed, and menacing 
ready to rip and rend on the slightest provocation ; those frightful ca^s, 
with their green eyes, swollen tails, and backs always up; constantly 
prepared to spring upon you at a moment's warning." 

" At any rate, they put you on your guard ;" said Katharina, "which 
is more than can be said for the velvet-paws. The one makes no secret 
of her. being ready to fly at you, if you offend her; the other lies in wait 
to attack you, and give you a sly gash, when you least expect it." 

" But I confess, of the two, I prefer the velvet-pawed cat, to the 
fierce, green-eyed, spread-clawed cat ; if you'll permit me a choice, miss 
Miscetta Minola ;" said he. 

" I have heard that men prefer the animal that creeps stealthily and 
demurely, all innocence in her looks, pretending to be thinking of nothing, 
while the whole time she's watching how best she may pounce upon his 
weaknesses ;" returned she ; " and I suppose you, sir boy, affect to ape 
their taste. I care nothing, not I, for your tastes or your preferences ; 
but I'll thank you to call neither my sister nor myself, a cat, any more • 
and I give you fair warning, that if you hint at such a thing again, I'll 



122 KATHARINA AND EIANCA J 

give you as sound a box o'the ear, as you can well imagine, with all your 
fine fancies, of claws, and paws, and green eyes. : ' 

" No, will you really, Miscetta ? " said he. 

Slap came a swinging cuff against the side of his head: but as he 
only laughed, and repeated " puss, puss, puss," a shower of blows follow- 
ed; and grasping a few clumps of his hair in one hand, she fairly be- 
laboured him' with the other, until signior Gremio the younger, assisted 
by one or two of the other guests, came to the rescue, and drew her off. 

Giulio was still roaring with laughter, as he shouted, " never mind, 
let her alone, she'll soon tire herself. See, the bird is still unwounded 
by Kate Cat ! He has strength left to fly out of pussy's reach." Say- 
ing which, he sprang up, caught hold of some low branches of a tree just 
above his head and swung himself up among them. Here he remained 
carelessly dangling his legs, and whistling; while he pulled some more 
' pignoli ' out of his pocket, and sat contentedly cracking and eating them. 

By-and-by he varied his amusement by pelting the company with the 
shells ; slily contriving that the major part of them should hit Katharina. 

She looked up wrathfully. ; ' How dare you ? " she said. 

" You'll see how I dare. Don't ye like it, Miscetta? " 

" If you do it again, or say that again, I'll have my revenge ; " said 
she furiously. 

That same second, the words were repeated; and the next, a large 
stone that lay at Katharina's feet, was picked up and flung violently into 
the midst of the tree. 

It hit him. It struck his temple; and stunned, he fell forwards. 
There was a rustle among the boughs — they fortunately broke his fall — 
and then the lad dropped to the ground. The guests started up, in con- 
sternation ; ran towards the spot ; and raised him in their arms. Blood 
was oozing from the wound in his head ; but he was insensible. 

This incident abruptly broke up the party. The guests withdrew, 
holding up their hands, and exclaiming at the ungoverned temper of the 
little girl who had occasioned the accident ; the young lad was lifted into 
the house, and laid on a couch, while a surgeon was sent for to examine 
his hurts ; the two signior Gremios deplored the unfortunate conclusion 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 123 

of their entertainment, and addressed themselves to the recovery of 
their young friend, despatching a servant to conduct Katharina and 
Bianca home. 

As they walked along in silence, Bianca whispered; — "What a 
shocking thing to have happened ! I shall dread it coming to father's 
ears ; he'll be so angry. Yet it's my duty to tell him ; for I suppose 
you won't ? " 

i; Why should you suppose so ? I shall ; " said Katharine. 

A pause. 

' : He's badly wounded, I fear; did you see the bleeding dent upon 
his forehead, where the stone^hit him, sister?" said Bianca. 

Katharina shuddered ; then recovering herself, she said : — '■ What 
did he torment me for, then? I told him I'd be revenged, — if he went 
on so any more. He had fair warning." 

" If the boy should die ? " murmured Bianca. 

How can I help it? It's his fault — I told him I'd have my revenge ; 
and I took it. But don't be afraid — he'll not die — such disagreeable 
hateful boys as he, never do die." 

- But if he should ; " softly persisted Bianca. 

" Pshaw ! he won't, I tell you. How you worrit. Bianca ; and harp 
upon a thing, when you've once said it. He'll not die, never fear." 

" I have no cause ; it's you who have to fear, sister, and who ought to 
fear ; " said Bianca. 

" But I don't, you see ; " said Katharina. And here the matter end- 
ed for the present. 

However there it could not end, eventually. The boy, thanks to his 
youth and his- good constitution, did recover; but signior Baptista was 
so shocked at the injury that his daughter's rashness had caused ; he was 
so much vexed at the scandal, which this public exposure of the violence 
of her temper occasioned, that he resolved upon a step which he hoped 
might have the good effect of reforming her. while it offered the present 
advantage of removing her from the observation of society. He deter- 
mined to place his two daughters as pensioners in a convent, for the 
finishing of their education. 



124 

There were two convents near: both highly famed for the young; 
ladies' schools attached to them. One had the name of extreme simpli- 
city, even to plainness, in its appointments : of strictness and rigour, even 
to austerity, in its ordinances. The other was said to be more lenient in 
its regulations : and consequently was more fashionable, more in favor 
among those who styled themselves ; the leading and genteel families' 
of Padua. 

At first, signior Baptista. in hesitating to which of these convents he 
should send his daughters, rather inclined towards the austere one. as 
more likely to effect the cure which he desired in his contumacious child ; 
but at length, considering himself to be among -the leading men ' in his 
native town, and wishing his girls to take their place among the genteel 
young ladies of Padua, he decided in favor of the more fashionable es- 
tablishment. In his deliberations, he did not ostensibly shape his con- 
duct by these motives: on the contrary, he told himself that it was be- 
cause he did not think it was fair to punish Bianca for her sister's faults 
by sending her to a rigorous school, though such a one might be advisa- 
ble for Katharina : and as for the latter, why. he could always hold the 
more austere convent as a threat in reserve, should the other fail in 
bringing her to a suitable state of decorum. 

Katharina and Bianca were accordingly placed as boarders among 
the ladies of the Holy Petticoat: such being the name of the fashion- 
able sisterhood, in honor of a relic of great virtue and sanctity, which 
they possessed. — a portion of a sacred garment miraculously preserved 
and bequeathed : while the rival convent was known as that of the Sis- 
ters of Humility. 

On the first introduction of the two daughters of signior Minola. 
they were presented in great state to the lady Abbess, who was conde- 
scendingly affable : and made a little speech to them, full of affectionate 
unction, and coaxing patronage, telling them she was sure they would 
prove shining ornaments to the holy community of which it was now 
their privilege to form a part. 

We're not going to become nuns — don't think it : " abruptly ex- 
claimed Katharina 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 125 

•• You would not be fit to become a nun. ray child, with that rebel- 
lious tone of yours, which I fear betokens something of a rebellious 
spirit. But we'll soou set all that to rights ; we'll soon tame down 
that wicked little lion of a spirit, till it becomes a lamb, a very lamb." 
And the lady Abbess smiled through her set teeth, and smiled through 
her half-closed eyes, as she looked at Katharina with a placid conscious- 
ness of power. 

•• There's very little of a lamb in me. as you'll find ; " said Katharina ; 
" a lamb ends by becoming a sheep, and I've no notion of settling down 
into a fleecy fool, to be sheared, driven, slaughtered, roasted, and eaten up.'' 

••• Very little' there may be : and I fear. ■ very little ' there is : but 
that little we'll find out. my child, depend on't : for all our sakes. Saint 
Agnes be praised ! thou hast been blessedly sent hither, amongst our 
holy flock ! " 

•• Not to be a nun, I tell you ! " 

The lady Abbess again smiled through the row of teeth between her 
slightly parted lips, and smiled through her half-closed eyes, as she 
surveyed the figure of the child, standing there with clenched hands, 
flushed cheek, and defiant look. 

There was something in the expression of quiet, assured triumph, 
with which the Abbess sat thus regarding her, in silent superiority, that 
galled Katharina to the quick. 

She stamped her foot, and repeated "Not to be a nun, I tell you !" 

•■ Umph ? " said the Abbess in a silvery tone of enquiry, as if she had 
not heard what had just been said, in the loudest and most violent of 
voices. 

-Not to be a nun. I tell you! " was again repeated in a shriek. 

" Sister, sister, remember it is the reverend lady Abbess you are 
speaking to ! " interposed Bianea. 

" What's that to you ? or to me ? Why need you interfere 1 " And 
a smart slap of the face followed. 

- Tie that little vixen's hands behind her ; " said the lady Abbess in 
a bland voice, to one or two of the nuns who stood nearest. Katharina 
kicked and struggled ; but it was done. 

' : It was my intention to have given a little feast to welcome these 



126 KATHARINA AND EIANCA J 

two young ladies among us :" resumed the lady Abbess ; " but since the 
elder has seen fit to conduct herself in a manner as unexpected as it is 
reprehensible, she shall not be permitted to partake of the festivities, but 
shall be satisfied with dry bread." 

" Ah ha ! Dry bread ! My old friend — or rather, foe ! But it's too 
stale a punishment to frighten me. I'm become accustomed to it. ' Sat- 
isfied with dry bread !' Why, it'll be quite a regale to me, for old ac- 
quaintance' sake." 

" And not only shall she have no other dinner than dry bread," pro- 
ceeded the Abbess, with the same smile, and in an even tone, as if she 
were conscious of no interruption to her last speech, but were going on 
in continuation, — ' : not only dry bread, which in itself, as an inaugural 
dinner, would be disgrace enough to a child of feeling ; but you will be 
so good as to see, sister Brigida, that she eats it in presence of the whole 
school, while they are enjoying the dainties I have provided for to-day's 
little festival." 

" See if I eat it, though ! I'd rather starve," said Katharina. 

" And now, remove her ;*"' added the Abbess, with her smile, and her 
even tone. 

The scene in the refectory was such as had never before been wit- 
nessed in that place of discipline and order. 

First the young ladies were marshalled in, Bianca among them, and 
took their places at the dining-tables ; a nun presiding at the head of 
each, a teacher at the other end, with lay sisters in attendance, to hand 
the plates, and fill the drinking-mugs. 

Then the prisoner, Katharina, was ushered in, between two meek- 
looking nuns ; she was brought to the centre of the room, and placed at 
a small table, upon which was a thick slice of bread upon a trencher. 

But the moment her hands were untied, that she might commence 
her dinner, the first use she made of them was to skime both bread and 
trencher to the other end of the hall. 

There was a look of amazement at her daring, upon all the school- 
girl faces turned towards her. ' 

The meek-looking nuns refastened the knots upon her wrists, picked 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 127 

up the trencher and bread, and brought them back ; but no sooner re- 
placed before her, than table, and all, were knocked over with one kick 
of her foot. 

The school-girl faces expressed increasing interest in this singular 
exhibition of bold and persevering defiance: 

"Reverend mother insists upon her eating it; she enjoined me to 
see her will performed ;" said sister Brigida. 

The meek-looking nuns again picked up the bread ; broke it into 
morsels, and put some of them to Katharina's lips. She took one into 
her mouth, chewed it hastily, then sent forth the fragments in a shower 
of crumbs. 

There was a titter ran through the ranks of scholars. The nuns 
began to feel there was danger to the solemnity of their supremacy, rather 
than salutary terror, in the example. They hastened, therefore, to put 
an end to the scene, by procuring an order from the Abbess, that the 
refractory new-comer should be lodged forthwith in a certain solitary 
chamber, devoted to the reception of culprits convicted of heinous of- 
fences. 

Here, shut up in darkness, and debarred from all society, she was left 
to reflect upon her errors, and to learn repentance. She did neither ; 
but she suffered intensely. The confinement enraged her ; the silence 
oppressed her ; the darkness dismayed her. At first she tore about the 
narrow space like a little wild thing, thumping at the doors, wrenching 
at the windows, and beating madly against the walls ; then uttered shriek 
upon shriek, demanding in frantic shouts and screams to be let out; then 
she sobbed passionately, and flung herself upon the floor, striking and 
scratching at it, as if she would have dug herself a passage through. 
Then she raved aloud again ; and then listened for an answer : — but 
when no sound reached her, in reply to her outcries, the echoes of her 
own voice seemed to mock her, and the silence that followed was like an 
insult. It irritated her with its mute contempt ; it so completely baffled 
her spirit of resistance, her love of contest, and opposition ; she would 
fain have had it take a tangible shape that she might have struggled with 
it ; she ground her teeth at it in impotence of rage and defeated will. 



128 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

Gradually, its continuance frightened her ; it seemed to Tanquish her 
by its sheer passive pertinacity ; she felt quelled and subdued by its 
monotony. Its effect was aided by the darkness which surrounded her. 
Her screams subsided into moans, her sobs into sighs ; and she lay 
panting and trembling, cowering down in a corner. But she never once 
repented of her fault — she never once confessed to herself that it was 
her own violence which had incurred this punishment : she only blamed 
their injustice, accused their tyranny, who had subjected her to such 
cruelties, and resented their having the power to inflict them. She would 
not own that her misconduct had caused her this suffering; but she re- 
solved that in future she would be more guarded in her behaviour. She 
did not intend to set about curing herself of insolence, or insubordina- 
tion ; but she thought she would henceforth take care so to keep them 
within rule, as not again to draw upon her the terrors of that dark soli- 
tude. 

She kept her resolution tolerably well. She put severe constraint 
upon herself, so that her outbreaks should not come beneath the im- 
mediate notice of the lady Abbess, or any of the nuns who were mis- 
tresses in the school. She with great difficulty reined in her tongue 
when she came in contact with the former ; for there was something in 
that smile through the half-closed eyes and teeth which peculiarly stung 
her. When she met it, directed towards her, she felt every fibre tingle, 
every pulse quicken, every drop of blood throb and rush to her fingers' 
ends. But she learned to master the show, at least, of contumacy, lest 
she should offend one who had power to order her to the dark room. 
Her violence of temperament was smothered ; but it was not extinct. 
Radical cure of a bad passion is not effected by such means. Subjec- 
tion is not conviction. Fear may induce the show of submission ; but 
through reasoning affection alone, is genuine compliance obtained. Ty- 
ranny but inculcates the meanness of hypocrisy — the expediency of 
apparent yielding. Love only can truly subjugate a haughty spirit. 
Through love alone and its divine teachings are evil feelings to be erad- 
icated, and virtuous emotions implanted in their stead. 

There was just now another chance for this little girl to have been 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 12S 

redeemed from her defect of disposition ; but like the former one, its 
influence was lost to her. 

In the chapel belonging to the convent, there hung a picture of the 
marriage of St. Catherine. It represented the virgin saint, kneeling at 
the feet of the infant Saviour. By her side was the symbol of her 
martyrdom, the torturing wheel ; but her face shone with holy fervour, 
hope, and extacy, as she bent to receive the ring of espousal from the 
hand of the sacred Babe, who leaned from his mother's lap to place it 
upon her finger. First. Katharina came to regard this picture with 
curiosity, as being that of her patron saint ; then she came to admire it 
for its great beauty, and the glories of its painting; then she loved to 
linger near it. and gaze upon it. for the sake of the benign expression 
upon the maternal countenance, for the sake of the radiant sweetness in 
the smile of the Babe, and for the sake of the happiness she felt in 
watching the look of hope, of joy, of heavenly aspiration on the face of 
the virgin-saint, her namesake. It seemed a comfort, a delight, to let 
her eyes rest upon so much of tranquil, unearthly gladness as shone 
there. She felt the turbulent sensations that usually agitated her soul, 
lulled and soothed, and set at rest, by looking upon this picture. She 
felt better, as well as happier, while she gazed ; and she would often 
linger behind her companions, when they left the chapel, that she might 
stay and enjoy the delicious frame of mind into which the contemplation 
of this picture threw her. She would sit like one entranced, forgetful 
of time : the nuns, her schoolfellows, her daily vexations, her petulances, 
grievances, ill-humours, all and everj-thing. faded from her view ; she be- 
held nothing but the picture, — felt nothing but the beatitude it inspired. 

One evening, after vespers, when her schoolfellows had all retired, 
she remained thus absorbed, and was sitting in her usual trance of de- 
lighted contemplation, opposite the picture, when one of the nuns, who 
had missed her, returned to the chapel in quest of her. 

" So, you are here, my dear child ; " said the nun, in the confidential 
whisper peculiar to her vocation; "neither sister Fidelia, nor sister 
Brigida. nor sister Lucia, could imagine where you were ; and they want 
you in the school-room ; and they sent me to seek you ; and to tell } T ou 
that " 



130 

" I wish you wouldn't hiss so ; " interrupted Katharina. to whom the 
whispered chatter of the nun was insupportable, jarring as it did with 
her then mood of mind ; can't you speak out what you have to say — and 
not ish-sh-sh-sh there, like a serpent," 

" A serpent? Holy mother forbid!" ejaculated the nun, crossing 
herself hastily. '-'• Far be it from me to bring anything belonging to the 
enemy of mankind here. Not even the hiss of the old gentleman ought 
to approach this place. But you know. Katharina, my dear, it isn't 
seemly to speak loud in chapel : so I must whisper what I have to say." 
" And what have you to say?" said Katharina. 

- Why, I told you before : only you're so pettish you never give 
yourself time to listen to what's said. They want you in the school-room 
for evening lessons." 

' ; Pshaw ! lessons ! I was studying better here. I wish they wouldn't 
disturb me." 

" Studying ? you mean, praying, I suppose ; chapel isn't the place 
to study in. Ah, I see ! you were praying to your patron saint, blessed 
Santa Katharina. Only you should kneel to her, and not sit lounging 
there in your chair, when you pray." 

- I wasn't praying ;" replied she. 

" What were you doing here, then, child ?" 

' ; I told you ; studying. I was studying that glorious face, to get it 
by heart. It does me good ; and I should like to have it always with 
me." 

" What do you mean, child ? Studying a saint's face ? getting it by 
heart? What bold, heathenish ideas ! But it's of a piece with your 
sitting, when you ought to be kneeling before the blessed picture." 

" It is a blessed picture ; but I feel its blessedness better when I'm 
sitting, than when I'm kneeling. My knees get stiff and cramped, and 
the pain distracts me from the sensation I have of the blessing of look- 
ing upon that face, — upon all the faces, for they are all beautiful and 
blessed." 

" What a strange way you have of talking, child ! Somehow, you 
shock me, with your odd manner of expressing yourself." 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 131 

Katharina did not reply; she was again lost in rapturous contempla- 
tion of the picture. 

Suddenly she said : — Ci I have found why the face of the Madonna so 
delights me. It is just such a kind, gentle, good face as my aunt An- 
tonia's. It is very like her. It never struck me till this moment ; but 
it is very like her. 7 ' 

The nun started ; again crossed herself ; and exclaimed — Cl Santis- 
sima Madre ! What are you saying ? It absolutely horrifies me to hear 
you attach such mundane notions to the picture of our blessed lady. 
Come ; let us leave the chapel. If I hear any more such profanity, I 
shall have to report you to the Superior." 

Although the nun did not actually carry a formal complaint to the 
lady Abbess about Katharina's profane ideas respecting this picture, yet 
in the tittle-tattling way which grows upon those nuns whose originally- 
limited supply of brains dwindles down to a mere nothing, in the round 
of trifles to which it is for the most part confined in its exercise, the 
matter soon got wind. It was whispered about, that Katharina had 
strange fancies of her own about the picture in question. A grand 
mystery was made of it — as of all occurrences there, however trivial. 

In a convent, as on board a ship, during a long sea-voyage, minutest 
incidents become important ; the slightest events assume interest; in- 
significant things are magnified into marvels of curiosity and investiga- 
tion. A gull flying near the mast-head — a knot of sea-weed — a passing 
cloud — are noteworthy objects to passengers, weary from very idleness, 
on the look-out. and prepared to be grateful, for anything that may vary 
the monotony and inactivity of their watery journey. So, a frown of the 
lady Abbess, a significant cough of one of the nuns, a hem more than 
usual, or more than can be accounted for by a cold, from one of the 
teachers, is sufficient, to put a whole convent-school in a state of animat- 
ed discussion for days. " Is it a bead mis-told ? Can it be that inad- 
vertent gape of Laura Pigrizia. last evening at complin ? Do you 
think it was observed 1 Foolish thing ! How could she do it ? Or 
was it that careless toad, Nina Trascura ? Did you hear what a lump 
she let her missal fall, t'other morning 1 just as father Pietro was be- 
ginning the ' Asperges ' !" &c. &c, &c. 



132 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

With still keener interest was the rumoured story of Katharina's odd 
notions about the picture discussed. There was a general huddling to- 
gether, a closing of bended heads, with whispered confabulations, and 
stolen glances in her direction, when next the school-girls repaired to 
the chapel. 

Katharina felt that she was observed, — watched ; her wrath was 
rising ; but she stifled her indignation as well as she could, knowing 
that such an indecorum as an outbreak in chapel would be severely 
punished. She sat therefore, biting her lips, swelling, and swallowing ; 
compressing her hands till the nails cut against the palms, — almost to 
pain ; casting, now and then, scorching glances at her companions, in re- 
turn for their inquisitive looks. 

But the moment service was over, and the chapel was quitted, she 
flamed out. 

The tribe of girls was pouring forth into the play-ground, down a 
flight of stone steps which led into it ; they tripped by twos and threes^ 
some hand-in-hand, some with arms clasped round each others waists, 
some flying alone, but all rushing onwards, eager for play, and chattel - 
ing at the top of their voices. 

- Presently, high and shrill above them all, sounded that of Katharina 
Minola. 

" Stop ! Come back, all of you ! I want to speak to you ! Stop, I 
tell you ! " 

Involuntarily they checked their steps, and stood in groups around 
the base of the stone staircase, at the head of which was Katharina, sur- 
veying them. 

" What were you all staring at 1 " 

A pause ; while the troop of school-girls looked at each other, dis- 
concerted. 

" What were you all staring at. T say, in the chapel to-day ? " 

Still no answer; while five or six girls who had unwittingly linger- 
ed behind their companions, and were thus standing near Katharina, 
suddenly made a dart past her, and flew down the steps to join the 
rest. 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 133 

" Just like sheep, I declare ! " laughed she, scornfully ; " what one 
does, the other does. But what were you all staring at. to-day. I ask 
once more % I should say you stared as hard as eagles, if anything so 
sheepish could look like the king of birds." 

" I suppose you mean to say you're like the sun, if we stared like 
eagles ; " screamed a giggling voice from among the crowd below. 

-Who said that?" said Katharina. darting a piercing glance into the 
midst of them ; " let her come up. whoever it was, and say it again, to 
my face, and see if I won't pitch her right down from top to bottom of 
the steps." 

"It's all very fine, twitting us with staring: why you yourself will 
outstare an eagle. — or any body else, when you're in one of your tan- 
trums ! " said the same giggling voice, which was echoed in such myriad 
giggles and titters, running through the bevy of school-girls, that it was 
impossible for Katharina to distinguish the speaker. All at once, the 
giggles subsided ; and a sudden gravity stole over the upturned 
faces. 

Katharina, who was scanning them eagerly, perceived the change ; 
and also, by the direction of their eyes, saw that it was caused by some 
object immediately behind herself. 

She turned, and beheld the lady Abbess ; standing close to her el- 
bow, with arms folded, and person drawn up to its full height. Con- 
fused thoughts of flinging herself against the reverend mother, of up- 
setting her. and tumbling her headlong down the flight of steps. — even 
a keen sense of the pleasure it would be, to see one so dignified and 
imperturbable, bundling helplessly over. — flashed wildly through the 
brain of the child ; but a second glance at the face and figure of the 
Superior, suffered to show even her impetuosity the folly of any such 
attempt. The shrewd glassy eye. all the more stern for the cold smile 
with which it gleamed through the quivering half-closed lids ; the com- 
pressed lips, the set teeth, the folded arms, the firm erect mien, all told 
the utter futility of hoping to move — either physically or morally — such 
a woman. 

She stood thus for some moments, transfixing her with those sharp 



134 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

slantwise glances j until she seemed satisfied with their effect, and knew 
that they had gained her the mastery. Then she said, in her even voice ■ 
— '•' I have heard something of this. And so you do not like to be star 
ed at, Katharina Minola ? Then you should learn to comport .yourself 
a little less singularly, my child. We will take order that it shall be so. 
You shall learn to pray before a holy picture, as other people do, not 
study it ; and then perhaps when you affect no singularity, your com- 
panions will not be disposed to wonder at you, or stare at you ; you will 
be spared that, my child, if it affront you. I am willing to spare the 
feelings of all my flock as much as may be, and I expect, in return, that 
they will not offend me by affecting singularity, which I hold to be a 
sinful and dangerous vanity." 

" I don't affect — I hate affectation — I " stammered Katharina. 

" Be silent, my child, while I speak ;" interrupted the lady Abbess. 
" In order that you may obtain an insight into your error, and learn to 
regard that picture in its proper light, I desire you will repeat a thirty 
days' prayer, together with the seven penitential psalms, upon your 
knees, morning and evening, fasting, in front of that sacred picture ; and 
may this penance serve to cleanse you of your past sin, and inspire you 
with better and more fitting thoughts for the time. Pax vobiscum ; et 
benedicite, my child !" 

' : But I can't, — I won't " — began Katharina passionately. 

u You will either perform the penance I enjoin you, or go into soli- 
tary confinement for a week ;" said the abbess, as she withdrew. " I 
would fain be lenient. I give you your choice, my child." 

Nothing less than the threatened terrors of the dark room, would 
have induced Katharina to go through with the other penance. As it 
was, she performed it ; but how? In a spirit of repugnance, of mutiny, 
of all that was destructive to salutary effect. She kneeled, it was true ; 
but with heart uulowly, unreverential, full of indignation and rebellion. 
She repeated the appointed words, but it was with distracted attention, 
thoughts wandering and inappropriate. She resented the compelled 
utterance of what she felt to have no consonance with the ideas she at 
tached to the picture. She abhorred the mechanical repetition of these 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 135 

sentences that carried with, them no one echo of the emotions inspired 
by gazing on those sublime countenances. In the constantly recurring 
unwillingness, and disgust of her task, in the sense of its unsuitableness, 
its uselessness, its very mockery, as it seemed to her, she learned to as- 
sociate feelings of discomfort with the picture itself; and by the time 
her thirty days' penance was concluded, she had come to look upon it 
with nearly as much reluctance, as she had formerly gazed with eager- 
ness. The holy awe, the tender fascination, with which this painting 
had once inspired her, might have been made the source of chastening 
self-examination, of worthy endeavours ; but it had been turned into a 
means of tyranny and wrong teaching, and the opportunity for future 
good was lost. Passionate temperaments are apt to be influenced by 
Art. Their very ardour and susceptibility render them peculiarly open 
to impressions for good or evil through the senses, the imagination, the 
intellectual faculties, — all of which are appealed to, in high Art. A fine 
painting, a solemn strain of music, might produce powerful effects upon 
such a disposition as Katharina's ; while upon one of softer mood, it 
should produce nothing beyond a perception of beauty. Had the strong 
hold which that picture originally took upon her feelings, been carefully 
fostered, wisely aided, and holily directed, it might have wrought her in- 
calculable benefit, remoulded her character, and developed its excellen- 
ces : but a pernicious bias had been given, and the very strength of her 
original impressions had made the harm done, the greater. Ever after 
tnat period, Katharina as earnestly shunned, as she had formerly sought, 
looking upon that picture. 

And now the annual distribution of prizes was about to take place. 
For many weeks previous, the school was in a bustle of preparation. 
There was to be a grand exhibition of the works of the school ; recita- 
tions of poetry, and singing in parts, were to be given by the young la- 
dies. Parents were to be invited, that they might see their children 
show off, and receive the rewards of merit, and of emulation ; to say 
nothing of those that might be due for vanity, envy, and malice. 

It was a striking feature in this display, that all works of utility were 
omitted. Nothing but fancy-works, works that would show well, were 



136 

included among those got up for the occasion. Of course, during th< 
lcng period of preparation for all this, every kind of useful lesson or solid 
acquirement was set aside, to give time for the heaps of show-things thai 
it was necessary to achieve. 

Nothing was to be seen but pieces of satin, and silk, taffeta, lute- 
string, and brocade ; beads, coloured papers, tinsel, gilded bordering, 
spangles, gauze, palettes dabbed with the gaudiest of paints, drawing- 
boards, cards, fillagree, bran, embroidery, floss-silks, worsteds, wools ; 
ribbon, ivory, shells, feathers, wax, lace, pencils, paint-boxes, silver and 
gold wire, thread, cat-gut, gum, paste, varnish, bugles, gilt-foil, muslin, 
tissue-paper, velvet ; all kinds of smarteries in material, — all possible 
variety in bits, shreds, scraps, morsels, and small quantities. 

And then, by degrees, this mass of trumpery was formed, modelled, 
and made up. Beneath the diligent fingers of the young ladies, aided 
by the skill and invention of the nuns, it shaped itself into innumerable 
objects of almost indescribable appearance, and of utterly indescribable 
and undiscoverable use", but which were collectively to be displayed as 
the works of the school — and to form that grand exhibition, upon which 
the hearts of the young ladies and their parents were so fondly fixed, as 
the result of their year's schooling, and the source of the forthcoming 
prizes. There were pincushions — vast numbers of pincushions — of every 
size and shape ; but the favorite kind of pincushion was a singular fabric 
of crimson satin crammed with bran, fashioned three-corner-wise, the 
two upper points of which beiug strained across the top and fastened 
together, the whole was supposed to form a striking resemblance to that 
mysterious organ, the human heart. This, — to be dangled at the side, 
by a long ribbon, — was considered a useful present to a faithful servant, 
or favorite nurse ; at the same time that it afforded an affectiug typical 
assurance of the fond attachment for home maintained by the young 
lady during her school-life. Upon the whole, perhaps, the pincushions 
were the most useful objects there,; at any rate, there was a definite and 
specific use to which they might be put. But for the most part, the 
articles constructed, were purposeless ; utterly devoid of any conceivable 
aim or avail whatever. There were boxes so small that they would 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 137 

contain nothing ; boxes so fragile that they would hold nothing ; boxes 
with such inadhesive sides, insecure handles, and limp, intenible bottoms, 
that the) 7 were fit receptacles for nothing but dead flies or dust. There 
were heaps of artificial flowers, with nearly as little the shape, or hue of 
nature, as the smell ; set under glass cases. There were waxen effigies 
of lambs, or babies, embedded in myriad fillagree curls, closely wedged 
in flat boxes with glass lids. There were ' suonarelli,' — or rattles, made 
with patchwork, and gilt tape. There were 'pazienzi,' — nondescript 
things, supposed to be of great virtue, hung on the side, or round the 
neck; square bits of cloth, ornamented with sewing-silk, and trimmed 
with colored ribbons, and pen-and-ink miniature figures of saints. There 
were more than one ' Presepio ' of large size ; a sort of holy peep-show, 
representing Bethlehem Stable, with wax figures stuck about. There 
were worsted-worked prodigal sons, with black and white stitches, for 
eyes ; and a speckled wool calf in the distance : embroidered Ruths, with 
blue and white floss silk eyes, and pink floss cheeks, and yellow floss 
sheaves of corn framed and glazed. There were certain fabrications, 
popularly believed to be meant for watch-pockets, (were a watch among 
the family possessions), — or for reliquaries ; these were fashioned of all 
conceivable varieties ; octagonal, hexagonal, square, oval, round, and 
diamond-shaped ; quilted, quilled, frilled, and rosetted ; but invariably 
finished off with such slender hanging-ribbons, that on putting these frail 
and -treacherous pouches to the use for which they were professedly 
adapted, the watch or relic would disappear behind the bed's head — 
smash on to the floor. There were shell-work bags that would not bear 
anything p^t into them heavier or stronger than flue ; feather, and rice, 
and wafer-baskets, that mightn't be touched, lest they should come un- 
gummed, or unpasted, or unfixed. And then the things, by courtesy, 
called paintings ! Daubs of heads, with mouths out of drawing, chins 
awry, eyes askew, nostrils formed by a dot or a scratch. 

On the eve of the appointed day, the whole was collected, sorted, and 
disposed to the best advantage, preparatory to the important occasion ; 
and the young ladies were permitted to enjoy the sight of their accumu- 
lated labours. While the rest had been eagerly inspecting the arrange- 



138 KATHAE.INA AND BIANCA J 

merits, Katharina bad remained in a quiet corner, diligently plying her 
knitting-needles. 

i: And is it possible you don't take any interest in the sight of all 
these beautiful things, sister?" said Bianca. '-Do come and look at them. 
now they are arranged." 

" Truly, not I ; I don't care for 'em ;" returned she. 

"An't you pretending? Don't you really care?" said Lisa, one of 
the youngest of the pupils. 

" I never pretend — nothing's worth the trouble of making a pretence 
about, that I see. I don't mean these things, but things in general ; 
there's nothing worth pretending to feel what one don't feel. I'm a bad 
hand at pretending ; I might get on better if I did, perhaps. But I 
can't ; and moreover, I don't think I wish I could ;" said Katharina. 

" But don't you admire these beautiful works? I think them lovely ! 
I only wish I could make any one of them — but I'm too young;" sighed 
Lisa. '• Perhaps next half, sister Maria- Josepha says, I may be able to 
try an iron-holder ; but I fear I shall never succeed. you should see 
the glass-bead dew-drop on Celestina's plum pincushion ! ; so natural ! 
And the bloom ! Oh dear ! If nobody rubs it off by accident, before 
the time comes — it will be so praised ! And oh ! you should see the 
caterpillar Alicia has worked upon hers. It makes my flesh creep, it's 
so real ! And as for the lady -bird, and the beetle, on the leaf, they're 
perfect little darlings !" 

41 Carolina Ariotti has painted such a beautiful tear on her Hagar's 
cheek — it seems to be actually running down her face ; " said Bianca. 

'• From the glance I had, it seemed to be stuck upon her nose ; " saidj 
Katharina. 

" But you surely admire Anna Berini's group of flowers ; and Luisa 
Bomelli's landscape ? " said her sister. 

'• Neither one nor t'other ; one's all blue" passion-flowers, and pink 
lilies ; and the other's all lilac skies, red trees, and brown water. That's 
how you always go on, Bianca, — picking out the. very worst things, and 
bepraising them most. It's just as if you praised in spite, — over-praised, 
to draw more attention to the defects." 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 139 

" There's some truth in that ; " remarked one of the young ladies, 
aside. 

" They say. the Sisters of Humility have such exquisite works this 
year ; " observed another of the scholars. -I suppose they're trying to 
cut us out. as usual ; but I don't think they will." 

- It's really very mean of them to be always vieing with us. Sisters 
of Humility, indeed ! That's not much like practising the virtue, 
methinks !" said a third. 

•• I hear they're workiug a splendid altar-cloth, with a lace border 
that depth," said the other; -and the pattern's to be wheat-ears, vine- 
leaves, and grapes. But- we can match it with our banner for the 
Easter procession. Why, the gold rays alone, round the Agnus Dei ? 
are worth all they can do in the way of lace-work." 

Most of the young ladies here went away, to take another view of the 
assembled works ; little Lisa alone remaining near Katharina. 

" Why don't you admire those things 1 " she said, after a few minutes 
watching the knitting. 

" They seem to me trumpery, tawdry, frippery ; not worth the time 
and trouble that have been wasted on them ; certainly not worth the 
spite, and jealousy, and petty envy that they have created. Did you 
hear what they said about the works at the rival convent ?" 

' : Yes. It's a pity they do that ; but they don't know any better, I 
suppose. They've never thought of it in that way. They're taught to 
strive all they can to out-do the Sisters of Humility, and to work as 
hard as they can to get a prize. I wish I could get a prize ! I wonder 
whether I shall ever work well enough to get one. Why didn't you do 
some pretty work to get a prize, Katharina ? Don't you wish for one 1 " 

" No ; I like knitting stockings better than fancy-work ; and I don't 
wish for a prize." 

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Lisa, with a look of wonder, as if she 
found it very difficult to believe what she heard. 

The grand day arrived. An ecclesiastical dignitary of eminence had 
promised to honor the proceedings with his presence. He was to be 
seated on a kind of throne, temporarily erected ; hung with garlands of 



140 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

artificial flowers, and plentifully besprinkled with spangles. In the 
body of the room were ranged benches, for the accommodation of the 
parents and guests, who formed an eager and expectant crowd The 
upper end of the room was fitted up with a kind of dais, or raised plat- 
form, on which stood a well-thumped set of virginals, that had seen 
severe service beneath the fingers of daily relays of practising young 
ladies ; on it also were rows of school-forms ; and around hung a great 
deal of festooned drapery of white and sky-blue calico, intermingled with 
wreaths of pink paper roses. 

The guests, on arriving, were conducted through a suite of rooms, in 
which were long tables, covered with the school-works, set out with 
elaborate care, so as to display them to the bes^ advantage, and with 
slips of written paper pinned on each, bearing the name of the gifted 
young lady whose work it might be. There was, of course, much linger- 
ing, and inspecting, and admiring, on the part of the visitors, as they 
passed along through these importantly-laden tables : much congratula- 
tion, approbation, laudation, from them ; much whispering, confidential 
hinting, and delicately insinuated flattery to certain parental ears, from 
the nuns, — teachers in the school, — who glided to and fro among the 
lady-friends of their young charges, — -mothers, doting aunts, affectionate 
cousins, or wondering younger sisters, brought by especial indulgence to 
this scene of juvenile glory and achievement. Now and then, a side-door 
would open, and a young lady or two, of the school, would slip in among 
the arrivals, to give a surreptitious welcome to their own particular 
party. On the stairs, on the landing, here and there along the ante- 
chambers, might be seen some of these adventurous spirits, flitting 
amidst the crowd of gaily dressed worldlings, conspicuous by their white 
frocks, blue sashes, and veils, their hushed voices, their pretendedly- 
apprehensive glances at the nun-teachers (secure, all the while, of their 
connivance) ; while squeezes of the hand, furtive kisses, and stolen hugs, 
were plentifully exchanged between them and their delighted relations. 

Suddenly there is a whisper runs among the crowd : — - Monsignore 
is arrived ! Make way ! make way ! " The crowd draws back — there 
is a passage formed, through which Monsignore and the troop of attend- 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. Hi 

ant priests pass, in great state and dignity, towards the great room. 
The nuns disperse, the stray school-girls vanish, the crowd close in be- 
hind the ecclesiastical train, and hurry forward to secure seats. Mon- 
signore is ushered to the throne ; the attendant priests sit around him : 
the visitors push and struggle for the front benches ; the nuns attempt 
to marshal them into order, and to prevent some of the ladies from 
occupying three-fourths more space than is necessary, with the skirts of 
their gowns. By dint of a great deal of coaxing, smiling, whispering, 
nodding, nudging, and pointing, this is. in some degree, effected ; and 
the majority of the guests are seated. But there are still many standing ; 
some flattened against walls, others jammed in recesses ; while through 
the doorways, there appear vistas of straining heads, which, from their 
occasional bobbing disappearance, sudden re-appearance, and renewed 
popping down again, suggest the idea of their owners being on tiptoe as 
long as nature will second the efforts of their anxiety to behold the 
exciting scene they imagine to be taking place. 

For some time, however, there seems to be nothing of very thrilling 
interest going forward. There is a pause, during which, Monsignore 
applies himself to his pouncet-box, and whispers the priest seated next 
him. Several of the tonsured heads bend forward, and endeavour to 
partake of the remark that falls from the reverend lips ; which, by the 
smile they wear, proclaim it to be a humorous one. Then the smile is 
renewed upon each pair of lips belonging to the tonsured heads, obsequious 
to his reverence's clerical jest. Then there is a troublesome cough affects 
Monsignore : which the lady Abbess perceiving, she hands him a box of 
choice sweetmeats. He takes one, with such a look of saintly suavity, 
that it is positively touching to behold. 

Presently, a door in one corner of the platform opens, and the young 
ladies of the school enter two and two, with their white veils drawn on 
each side of their faces, their e} T e-lids cast down, and their hands folded 
before them. At this point of time, there is a great stir among the 
straining heads ; the tiptoes are perseveringly sustained : and some of the 
flattened and jammed against the walls and in recesses take the opportunity 
of stepping on to some of the benches which their former occupants have 



142 

in haste abandoned, in order to get a better sight, peering over the heads 
of those in front. There is much whispering, and pointing out of 
individuals among the just-entered school-girls, who take their seats upon 
the very edges of the forms, and remain with their eyes fixed upon the 
floor, while one of their companions, together with one of the teacher- 
nuns, goes over towards the virginals, which they proceed to belabour 
with certain blows supposed to form a musical duet. As this progresses, 
the veiled young ladies venture to raise their eyes, cast sidelong glances 
into the room ; and as they gradually discover their friends, bite their lips 
to prevent smiling, then risk another glance, then smile more openly, 
then nod, and at last, not only interchange looks of recognition with those 
they know, but actually take courage to stare at Monsignore himself. 

The duet ended, — prolonged applause from the guests (of admiration 
from those connected with the young lady player, of relief from all 
unconcerned in her) marking its conclusion, — six other young ladies rise 
from their seats, advance to the front of the platform, andsing a piece of 
music, in a tone both squeaky and nasal ; at certain intervals, elevating 
their eyes, and lifting their hands — alternately the right and left — in a 
style imagined to be indicative of feeling, animation, and appropriate 
action. 

At the end of the vocal piece, Monsignore is again seized with a fit 
of coughing. The box of comfits is once more offered ; but this time, 
the Abbess's courtesy is declined by a gesture of the white and jewelled 
hand of the polite ecclesiastic ; who has an eye to the coming collation, 
and thinks it as well not to injure his appetite with the cloy of sweets. 

Then four young ladies stood up in a row, and engaged in a French 
recittaion. It consisted of long speeches gabbled by the several young 
ladies in succession, as rapidly as their organs of articulation would per- 
mit ; and as, now and then, a hand was raised, a head was nodded, a chin 
was tossed, and a body was jerked forward with a little petulant motion 
from the waist, it was presumable that the dialogue was to be understood 
as consisting of some very smart, witty, and jocose hits. From the cir- 
cumstance, too, of Monsignore being observed to condescend a gentle 
smile, which was instantly followed by a corresponding one upon the 



THE SHREW. AXD THE DEMURE. 143 

faces of the attendant priests : and from the obliging titter which ran 
through the two front rows, those occupying them being sufficiently near 
to distinguish (not the sense or meaning, for there was little or none of 
either — but) the words of the gabbled recitation, there could be no 
doubt that it was intended to be comic, and highly facetious.— so accord- 
ingly, the audience were kind enough to laugh. 

Then came the bestowal of the prizes. The candidates — those happy 
selected young ladies destined to receive them, came one by one. and 
stood before the throne of Monsignore, who addressed a short speech, in 
a mild snuffle of mingled admonition and encouragement to each : a tin- 
sel crown was placed on her head, the prize was given into her hands, as 
loud a congratulatory crash as could be banged out of the old virginals. 
followed ; and then she was permitted to join her friends in the room. 

A cold collation succeeded ; fruit, cakes, and wine, for the visitors. 
A banquet of all that could be collected of rarest and most exquisite in 
both eating and drinking, for Monsignore and his train. 

'"'• Do you see who is one of the priests in attendance on his reverence. 
sister? 1 ' whispered Bianca, as the ecclesiastical train left the room 
where the prizes had been given, for the one in which their refection 
was spread. 

" Yes. yes ; I see. It's father Bonifaccio : " was Katharina's reply. 

" Oughtn't we to go and speak to him. think you, sister? " continued 
Bian(ja. 

i: You can go. if you think fit: I shan't. I never could endure that 
filthy old creature, with his carnying way of speaking. I don't know 
which I used to hate worst — his stinking baize gown, or his smeary 
voice." 

' ; Fie, sister ; you should try and forget his personal defects in his 
holy office : " said Bianca, with a little prim air peculiar to her. 

'•Pooh ! His defects and my disgust are too strong to be stifled and 
out-perfumed, even by church-incense. There's one thought, indeed, 
which might make me tolerate him : but ■" 

;; Tolerate him, sister ! Is that the way to speak of a member of 
holy church ? " 



144 KATHARINA AND BIANCA ' 

" It's my way of speaking, you hear, my demure sister : " said 
Katharina : " and that's enough for me ; and it must be enough for you, 
too. I never stay to pick my words for any one." 

" Pity but you did. perhaps ; " said Bianca. ' ; But what was the one 
thought which might bring you to endure — no, to tolerate the good 
father ? Tolerate, forsooth ! " 

'■ Ay. tolerate ; that was the word I used. And truly, it demands 
obtuser senses than I can boast, to let him get the wind of me, for more 
than the space of ten seconds or so ; a minute would upset me quite. I 
might be subverted, — never converted." 

" But your one thought, sister ! " pursued Bianca. 

" My one thought ? Oh, it's gone — it's over — it's past : like most of 
my good thoughts, it's evanescent — off like the wind. No thought 
serves to restrain me for a longer time than the summer air takes in 
blowing the shadow of a cloud across a corn-field ; the impression it 
produces is as fleeting — as transient — as insubstantial." 

She fell into a fit of musing ; in which Bianca left her, to go and join 
her schoolfellows. Katharina remained alone ; her eye unconsciously 
watching the dancing of the reflected light from some water in a cut-glass 
goblet, that had been left untasted by Monsignore, when it was brought 
him to still his cough. The sunbeams caught the crystal of the glass 
and water ; and threw flickering lights upon the floor at Katharina's 
foot. Her eye followed their undulations, but she was not noting them. 
Her brow was knit ; her nether lip was drawn in, and held by her front 
teeth, which pressc 1 upon it ; while her thoughts flew back to the time 
of her mother's death, of her remorse, of her aunt's words which had fore- 
told both, while they had opened her mind to its first perception of a 
higher rule of action than self-will. 

" Had she been here to-day, she would have given me a motive for 
bearing with him ; even for being glad to see him ; she would have bade 
me try and look upon him with toleration, for the sake of one who re- 
garded him ;" something like this, was her course of thought ; " she 
would have led me to associate this idea with him, until it overpowered 
the old disgust, or at any rate taught me the endeavour to lessen my 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 145 

repugnance, as a deed of expiation towards her memory, whom I have 
so often fretted and angered on this very man's account. But all this, 
is very fanciful. Why should I trouble my head with it ? After all, 
he is a nasty filthy old man ; and my going and speaking to him. won't 
retrieve my offence to my dead mother. What have I been dream- 
ing of?" 

Childish dreams of good and noble things ! — unripe perceptions of 
wiser and more generous impulses ! — imperfect visions of the better 
nature stirring within ! — why are ye not more frequently, and more se- 
dulously, watched for. fostered, and- developed, by those who have the 
tutelage of youth ? Why was there no gentle friend at hand, with the 
sense and patience of the good aunt, to bring forth and assist these faint 
struggles towards good, in Katharina's soul ? Is it because girls' school- 
ing is mostly held to be comprised in the teaching of knick-knack mak- 
ing, accomplishments, and housewifery, with but little regard to the 
heart and mind which may one day be a wife's — perhaps a mother's 1 
Was it that these nuns — like many other school-teachers, were too in- 
tent on the culture of external qualifications, to pay any attention to 
the inward workings of their pupils' natures? Certainly, those of Ka- 
tharina's were unnoted and unaided ; and, left to themselves, they were 
insufficient to effect the redemption of her character. 

Several successive vacations. — with their prize-distributions, their 
work-displays, their pincushions, their recitation-gabbles, their chorus- 
squeaks, their tinsel-crowns, their paper rose-wreaths, their frivolous anx- 
ieties, their important trifles, their absorbing insipidities. — had followed 
each other as the years came round. But the end of that time found the 
young ladies of the school little changed. They had grown up, indeed, 
from quite little chi'dren into tali girls of from fifteen, to seventeen, or 
eighteen, — some even older — quite young women, in age and appear- 
ance : but, in point of mind — in all matters of faculty, or judgment ; in 
heart, — in all matters of principle or sentiment; they were as completely 
children as ever. 

Their brains had remained stunted, while their bodies grew ; their 
characters had been permitted to remain undeveloped ; their ideas had 



146 



KATHARINA AND BIANCA 



been cramped and compressed into shell-baskets and rice-paper boxes ; 
their thoughts had been pinned down to pincushions ; their intellects 
had been put under glass cases with artificial flowers, — dwarfed and con- 
fined beneath glass lids with waxen effigies, and gilt fillagree ; they had 
never been suffered to entertain an opinion on a subject less flimsy than 
floss silk, catgut, or gauze ; to speculate upon higher subjects than paste, 
wire, and gum ; or to exercise their invention upon things of graver 
weight than feathers, — of greater moment _than spangles, foil, and 
tinsel. 

In all, save increased dexterity of finger, they were veriest babies 
still. Some of the most energetic among them, who had been prompted 
by natural activity to take advantage of the lessons going on at those 
times when the preparation for the prizes did not engross all attention, 
had gained a smattering of grammar, a notion or two of geography, 
(about as much, perhaps, as to know that their native Italy was pink, 
had shaped like a boot : that France was blue, Portugal green, Spain 
yellow, and the British Islands a smoky brown), could write flourished 
alphabets in three or four different texts, and add up sums the whole 
length of a slate : — but these were looked upon as the prodigies of the 
school — quite geniuses ; girls almost unfemininely clever. 

The same rivalry went on between the two convents year after year. 
The school conducted by the Ladies of the Holy Petticoat, maintained 
its preenfnence as a fashionable seminary; while that under the super- 
intendence of the Sisters of Humility was still cited for its strict dis- 
cipline, its propriety, and its excellent system. Many particulars of this 
system became known to the rival school, by the secession of one of the 
young lady boarders, who coaxed her guardian into letting her come 
over to the milder and more modish establishment. She was received 
with delight by her new schoolfellows. Her acquisition was a matter 
of triumph. Her stories of the community she had left, were devoured 
with avidity. She was urged, encouraged, courted, to relate every petty 
minutia concerning it. They dwelt, with the pertinacious interest of 
little minds, upon the most insignificant details ; and seemed never 
freary of hearing and canvassing the most trivial circumstances. The 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 147 

appetite for gossip, induced by paucity of food of a higher kind, is as 
craving as it is irrational. It increases in proportion as it is gratified. 
It seems absolutely insatiate. No amount of gossip suffices your gossip- 
lover. No amount of the aliment — frothy in itself, to be sure. — will 
produce repletion. A true gossip-lover will gorge it with hungry eager- 
Dess— with an ever-gaping maw. that only such fictitious appetites know. 
The appetite for gossip is a morbid taste, one of those unwholesome, 
unnatural relishes, — such as they fancy for crunching slate-pencil, green 
gooseberries, cabbage-stump, and raw turnips, — very apt to grow upon 
ill-regulated school-girls : and it is almost sure to be engendered by fri- 
volous instruction, a teaching of handiworks rather than of ideas. — in- 
sufficient mental culture. Give a girl silly things to do and to think of, 
— occupy her fingers, and leave her mind unsupplied, — and the natural 
consequence is, inanity, with its almost universal concomitant, an inor- 
dinate love of gossip. 

To see the way in which her schoolfellows flocked round their new 
associate. Elvira Blangini. at recreation time ; every voice full of eager 
enquiry, every eye fixed upon her. their looks beaming with interest, 
their lips apart and breathless, their chattering hushed while she spoke, 
i 4 - might have been supposed that some object of vital importance was in 
operation, profoundly aifecting them all. But no ; they had only been 
questioning her about the regulations observed at meal-times, at bed- 
time, and during play hours, in the school of the holy Sisterhood of 
Humility. 

"At five? 0. impossible ! " exclaimed half a score of voices. 

' : Hush ! let's hear ! " screamed a score and a half. " Let her speak ! 
Tell us. Elvira ! tell us ! " 

' ; Quite true, I assure you ! " replied she. " Five, winter and sum- 
mer. And expected to be down in the school-room at half-past ; washed 
and dressed, too, I can tell you : or there was a sum tnat height, to add 
up. for our pains." 

" Shameful ! " ejaculated the half score. " We never have to get up 
here, till seven : and early enough too, I'm sure ! " 

' ; Hush ! " screamed the rest. "But how about dinner. Elvira? 
Were vou allowed to send up your plates twice 1 " 



148 KATHAR1NA AND BIANCA J 

" yes, as often as we liked, bat it was such nasty mess ; thai 
eternal 'polenta:' plain soup and c bollito,' or simple 'arrosto;' no 
nice dishes, — nothing savory, — nothing dainty in the way of sweets: — all 
so disgustingly insipid — and stupidly wholesome. Pah ! It makes me 
sick to think of it ! " 

" Pah ! Ugh ! " echoed her new schoolfellows. u No wonder you 
wished to leave, and come to us. We have such nice things — all the 
new-invented dishes, and most delicious sauces ; and such puddings ! " 

" It's a pity we're only helped once, though ; I could often eat more ; " 
murmured the voice of a little girl ; but it was drowned in the farther 
enquiries of the crowd. 

" Nothing but water ? Oh dear ! " 

" No, nothing but water ; reverend mother used to say it would make 
us fair ; and that she didn't mind about our drinking, so that we did but 
eat well. She said, eating heartily was the best thing growing girls 
could do ; and used to beg the teachers to see that we had sufficient ; 
but, you know, it was impossible to eat enough to satisfy oneself, of their 
nauseous ' bollito ' and ' arrosto.' I'm sure I couldn't." 

" How did you manage ? " said the little girl who had before spoken. 
" You must have starved ; only you don't look very thin." 

Perhaps Elvira didn't hear her ; at any rate she didn't answer her ; 
but went on to say : — " You can't think what a pack of absurd rules they 
had there. One was, that if any young lady talked at meal-time she was 
to give a fine to the poor-box ; if she was inattentive, or saucy, or dis- 
obedient, always a fine, and always put into that never-ending poor-box. 
Then there was another ; if you left off any portion of dress that was too 
old, or that you had out-grown, it was added to the bundle always ac- 
cumulating for the out-of-work among the poor ; then they made us 
scrape lint for the poor, and make baby-linen for the poor, — at least, they 
called it allotting us to work for them — as if it were any such vast pri- 
vilege to bore oneself with taking trouble for a tribe of people whom one 
never saw." 

" 0, but for the poor, you know !" exclaimed Bianca. and one or twc 
others. 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 149 

M Yes, yes, it's all very well ; I don't mind helping the poor, of course ; 
giving tliein money, doing charity, and all that; but I have no notion of 
giving oneself trouble for 'em, you know ;" said Elvira. " That's rather 
too much of a good thing.'" 

Katharina gave a short laugh. " Too much for you, — or for them ?" 
she said. 

Elvira only stared in reply, and went on : — " Then they were so 
tiresomely moral, and strict, and straight-laced ; appealing to our own 
feeling, and duty, and that kind of thing. We were all to be upon 
honour, as they styled it, with regard to our faults ; and to tell of our- 
selves, if we were conscious of having done wrong, or deserved punish- 
ment. A likely thing, indeed ! They talked about reasoning with us, 
and trying to convince our good sense — and a parcel of ridiculous stuff 
of that sort ! Perfect nonsense, you know !" 

'• La, yes ! All we have to do here, is just to obey ; that's all. They 
settle for us what's right, and what's wrong ; we have only to believe 
what we're t">ld, and to do as we're bid. And really, it saves trouble ;" 
said one of her hearers. 

" Then they were so frumpish and fogeyish in their ways !" continu- 
ed Elvira. ' ; Because they're called Sisters of Humility, I suppose, they 
won't allow a bit of ornament any where about the rooms ; the walls 
are white-washed, the floors are all plain brick, — no ornament, — no ' bat- 
tuto.'' There's an iron grating in the receiving-parlour ; but not a pic- 
ture, not a flower, not a morsel of drapery. There's not even a bell in 
the house ; but when a summons is needed, it is given by striking a 
couple of iron rods, or small bars, together ; and this, it seems, is merely 
because it has been an old custom, from time immemorial, and therefore 
thought to be more primitive, and less pretentious. The Sisters of Hu- 
mility are very proud of their primitive simplicity ; and affect, in all 
things, merest neatness and utility. They plume themselves on their 
meekness, and hold their heads high on the strength of their lowliness 
and purity." 

" Is back-biting one of their purities?" said Katharina ; " do they 
inculcate spite and slander among their meek precepts ?" 



150 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

" What does she mean ?" said Elvira, with a slight shrug, and a look 
of enquiry at her companions. 

" 0, we none of us ever mind Katharina : she's allowed to be as cross 
as ever she likes — it's her way — she can't help it, poor thing!" tittered 
Carolina, one of the school-girls. 

" Gramercy for your forbearance :" said Katharina ; " only, as you 
give me credit for none, don't be surprised if I pay you out, the next 
such sneer you treat me to. Remember ; I warn you !" 

Ci Fie, sister !" said Bianca. interposing ; ' : Carolina meant no harm, 
I dare say ; you only prove her words, in being so cross with her. Why 
do you lose your temper ?" 

" Quite right, my smooth sister !" said Katharina ; " Carolina meant 
no more harm than you do, I'll be bound. You two, deal in the pro- 
prieties and safeties of inuendo, and affected pity ; while I prefer out- 
speaking. As to losing my temper, I can't well lose what I never had." 

" What a queer girl your sister seems !" said Elvira to Bianca, as 
Katharina left the room " How tartly and snappishly she takes one up 
at every word ! She seems a regular spitfire !" 

" I mustn't listen to my sister's dispraise, or allow you to call her 
names, to my face;" said Bianca, in her prim way. " But I will own to 
you in confidence, — for I've quite taken a fancy to you, Elvira dear, — 
quite should like you for a friend, — and we can't help liking friends for 
companions even better than sisters, you know, sometimes — I will own 
to you that she has an unhappy temper, and that she's been more than 
once called what you called her just now." 

" Spitfire ?" said Elvira. 

Bianca nodded. '• Yes ; shocking, isn't it ? And worse than that !" 

" La, what ?" said Elvira. 

:c Shrew ;" said Bianca with an emphatic pause. " Dreadful, isn't it? 
Beally dreadful, you know, for a girl to have a sister known as a shrew 
and a spitfire ; and to be called so, too ; and not able to contradict them, 
when they call her so ; for certainly, it must be owned, she is a shrew 
and a spitfire both. Oh, if you did but know " 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 151 

" What, what 1 Speak out. Bianca ;" said Elvira, and two or three 
of the other girls. 

"'- But perhaps I oughtn't to speak of it. as it was my own sister who 
did it ■" said Bianca. 

'• Did what ? Do speak out — do tell us." 

" Really, it was too horrible — he might have died — if you had but 
seen the wound on his temple — and oh ! the blood ! Oh !" 

' : Good gracious, Bianca ! wound ! — blood ! Goodness me, did she 
ever murder any one ?" And the girls drew round Bianca eagerly ; and 
never ceased plying her with questions till they had drawn from her the 
story of the boy and girl squabble between Giulio and Katharina; of the 
stone thrown into the tree : of his falling to the ground wounded and in- 
sensible. "But of course she didn't mean it, you know;" concluded Bian- 
ca : " you mustn't think more hardly of my sister, than you can possibly 
help. She has an unfortunate temper — that's all." 

" Ah, but who can like a girl with such a temper as her's, I should 
be glad to know ?" said Elvira. " It's impossible to like a girl who 
could behave in such a way as th-at !" 

" I oughtn't perhaps to have told about it ;" said Bianca. 

" Then why did you ?" said one of the girls. 

" I am sure I would not set you against my sister, on any account ;" 
said Bianca. " I should be very sorry to do that ; but every one can see 
tha-t she's ungovernable, hasty, and apt to be passionate and wilful." 

" To be sure ; every body can see that ! A disagreeable, cross, over- 
bearing spitfire ! that's what she is ! I shall take very good care s/ie 
shall never be my friend. Very different from her sister, my sweet dar- 
ling Bianca :" said Elvira. 

- Still I shouldn't have mentioned about Giulio if I'd thought you'd 
have thought the worse of Kate for it ; with all her faults, she's my 
sister, you know :" said Bianca. 

" Did you think we should think the better of her for it ?" said the 
same girl who had before spoken ; and who, having formerly been a great 
friend and favorite of Bianca's, felt jealous of the liking which had evi- 



152 

dcntly sprung up between her and the new-comer. Elvira : and seemed 
bent on revenging herself, bj asking teasing questions. 

"Never mind. Bianca : you had a right to tell what you did :" said 
Elvira. - An't I your friend? And we ought to have no concealments 
from our friends, you know." 

"Very true: and you're my dearest friend;" said Bianca; ' : my 
bosom-friend. I liked you from the very first ; and I feel now. I shall 
always like you." 

" I wonder how long the l always ' will last ;" said the other girl, 
laughing contemptuously, as she turned away, and left them together. 

t; I hope all our life :" said Elvira. " I've taken quite as strong a 
fancy to you. Bianca darling, as you have to me:" she continued: -and 
when the holidays come, you must spend them with me. I shall write 
and ask your father to spare you to me : and I shall tell him he mustn't 
think of refusing me. for I'm accustomed to have my own way in every- 
thing. My old guardian lets me do just as I like; excepting that he 
would have me go to school at last, because he said it was only what 
-^very young lady did. — and certainly it would be awkward not to know 
anything at all ; of course, that would be tiresome — more tiresome, even, 
than going to school. — so I went." 
. " To the convent of the Sisters of Humility ?" said Bianca. 

" Yes : one of the nuns is a relation of my guardian's : and she per- 
suaded him to send me there. She talked him into a notion that I had 
been spoiled. — let to run wild : that my education had been neglected. — 
ruined ; therefore he consented that I should try what a finishing-school 
would do for me. But I was hipped and moped to death with those old 
frumps : so after trying it a little time. I got guardy to change my school, 
— and here I am ; and I'm sure I shall like this one. — at least, as well 
as any school." 

•• Don't you like school ?" said Bianca. 

t: Like school !" exclaimed Elvira : " why. of course not ; who does ? 
stupid teaching, and humdrum learning, and dull lessons, and all that, — 
instead of doing as one likes all day, and idling away as much time as 
one pleases, sauntering in the garden, and so forth, as one can do at 



THE SHREW. A>TD THE DEMURE. 15o 

home. Besides. Hortensio says I'm too old for school now ; and so 1 
am. I shall be nineteen next birth-day.'' 

- I didn t know yon had a brother ;" said Bianca. 

" I haven't :'' said Elvira. 

" Then who's Hortensio ? I thought, perhaps, he wa-s your brother." 

•• My brother 1 La. no ! He's — he's — a — a — friend : a neighbour 
of ours. His fathers house is next door to us: and the garden joins 
ours. TThen I'm at home, he comes sometimes, and sits with me. in the 
summer-house : that is. if I give him leave : for he never ventures to 
climb over the wall without my permission." 

•■ Climb over the wall!"' said Bianca. 

■• Yes : there's a wall between the two gardens ;" said Elvira : " so 
he's obliged to climb it. when he comes to have a chat with me." 

•• He could go round through the house, couldn't he V' asked Bianca. 

■■ dear, no ! Guardy don't know that I know him. That is. he 
don't know that we know each other more than as mere neighbours, and 
all that. Guardy and Hortensio's father are not on speaking terms : 
so he don't think we're a bit more intimate than they are. don't you 
see?" 

•• I see ;" said Bianca. 

"And, I hope you'll see Hortensio himself, next holidays:" said El- 
vira. He is so handsome, you've no idea ! Such black eyes and hair ! 
Such loves of white teeth, and such a darling aquiline nose ! He is the 
very handsomest boy I ever saw ! I know you'll admire him." 

'•• I'm sure I shall, if you do. my dear friend : " said Bianca. 

" I wish the holidays were come : I quite long to show him to you !" 
said Elvira. •■ What an endless time it does seem to wait," 

In spite of the endless-seeming time, it came to an end at last : and 
Elvira Blangini obtained her wish of having her friend Bianca Minola 
to spend the holidays with her. She also very soon had her other wish 
fulfilled, of showing Hortensio. For not long after the two girls 
had arrived, and were still in all the delight of unpacking their school- 
boxes, and arranging their dresses and the rest of the school-girl pos- 
sessions coming under the comprehensive term. — ; - things." in their own 



I 54 KATHARINA AND BTANCA J 

rooms, when suddenly Elvira exclaimed in a sort of breathless excite* 
ment — " Come here, come here, Bianca, to this window ! stand behind 
this curtain with me, and peep out, and you'll see him. There ! Look ! 
Walking in the next garden, with a mandolin in his hand. It's he, him- 
self! 1 ' 

" Who ?';' said Bianca. 

" Who, child ? Why, Hortensio, to be sure ! Dear fellow, there he 
is ! He little thinks who's looking at him." 

' ; That ! That, Hortensio ! Why. that's a man !" exclaimed Bianca. 

" A man 1 Why, of course ! La. child, what do you suppose he was ?" 

" A boy; you always spoke of Hortensio as a boy; and I was fool- 
ish enough to expect to see a little fellow with curly black hair, and 
rosy cheeks ; and now I see a tall young man, — quite a tall young 
man ; " said Bianca. 

" Ah, I see how it is ;" said Elvira laughing. " Yes, yes, he was 
quite a boy when I first knew him ; and I've known him so long, and 
seen him so frequently, and so intimately, and easily, and all that, you 
know, sitting and chatting with him like neighbours' children, together, 
in the summer-house, down yonder, that I've always kept on thinking of 
him as a boy ; and have talked of him to you as a boy ; I suppose." 

C: Yes, you certainly did ;" said Bianca, " You gave me the idea of 
quite a boy, by your manner of speaking : for you said he was a hand- 
some boy, you know — and yet, — yet, — he actually has — actually— a 
moustache ! and — and — a — a — tuft ! " » 

" Well. I suppose that don't hinder him from being handsome, does 
it ?" said Elvira, still laughing. " For my part. I think they make him 
look handsomer than ever. I'm glad he wears his moustache ; and don't 
shave it off, as some of the effeminate young fellows nowadays have 
taken to do. But come, Bianca, get a fan — I have mine — and we'll go 
down into the garden and see him. He'll be so astonished to find I'm 
come home. Why, how you blush ! What a bashful thing you are !" 

" Am I ? " said Bianca. 

" Are you % why, to be sure you are ! A regular schoolgirl, — out of 
countenance at everything Didn't you color up to the eyes, when I 



THE SHREW. AND THE DEMURE. 155 

first presented 3-011 to my old guardian, this morning ? As if he could 
be anything to blush at. The idea of blushing about guarcly ! Why 
one would as soon think of changing color for the bronze statue of holy 
St. Anthony ! " 

If I blushed at all, it was from surprise, I believe ;" said Bianca. 
■• I was astonished to see your guardian looking so young ; I had imagin- 
ed him. from your words, to be an old gentleman." 

" Why so he is ! He's fifty at least — quite an old fogey ; I shouldn't 
wonder, if he were fifty-two or three." 

-'' I somehow absurdly fancied he was about eighty. I expected to 
see a tottering old gentleman, with a crutched stick ; and he's a smart 
beau — quite gallant, and attentive ; and I thought seemed particularly 
so. to his fair ward : eh, Elvira V 

' : 0, if you mean he admires me — you're quite right there ;" said 
Elvira, whose cheeks certainly evinced not the slightest tendency to 
change color, and bore full testimony to the truth of her thinking it 
wonderful that guarcly should be a subject for blushing ; i: the old fellow 
hasn't lost the use of his eyes : he can see a pretty girl clear enough — 
and knows that I'm one — and would only be too glad to marry me to- 
morrow, if I'd have him." 

" How you talk, Elvira !" said Bianca. 

" Ay, my dear ; I'm out of bounds, now : I can be as prim as you 
please — as demure-looking and as demure-spoken as yourself, when I'm 
in school. But school's one thing, and home's another ; and that's why 
I like home best — as I've often told you. But, come ; don't let's stand 
chattering and dawdling here any longer ; let's go down into the gar- 
den." 

When they reached the summer-house, Elvira gave Bianca a bit of 
fancy-work, to hold in her hands, and took up some herself; but pre- 
sently flung it down, and took up a book, turning over the leaves, and 
reading a line or two aloud, here and there ; stopping, and listening oc- 
casionally, between whiles ; then with an air of vexation, tossed that 
aside also, and snatched up a guitar, struck a few chords, going close to 
the open window as she did so. 



156 KATHARINA AND BIANCA ] 

Presently a voice was heard, at a little distance, saying : — I did not 
know you were returned home, signorina ; may I come over?" 

Elvira stepped to the entrance, smiling, and graciously bowing her 
head ; and, in another instant, Hortensio leaped the low wall, and came 
forward to the summer-house. 

Elvira Blangini presented him to her young school-friend, on seeing 
whom, the young man. at first, looked much embarrassed ; but what with 
the absence of all embarrassment on the part of the young hostess her- 
self, who seemed in the height of good-humour and spirits, and what with 
the extreme shyness of her friend Bianca, he soon gained courage ; grew 
talkative and gay — rattled on — rallied the young ladies on their notable 
dispositions — gave his opinion on silks — shades of colour, &c. &c. ; and 
in short, made himself quite agreeable, and at home with them. — end- 
ing by offering to play either the guitar or the mandolin to them as they 
worked. 

" No, perhaps best not:" said Elvira, giving a peculiar look in the 
direction of the house ; ' ; you may read to us, if you like — here's Ari- 
osto." 

" La, do you read poetry, Elvira ?" said Bianca ; u I thought it was 
forbidden." 

" Oh. ay. at the convent, child ; it's all very well there ; but here, I 
read what I like. We're school-girls there; we're women here, my dear ;" 
said Elvira. 

" And very charming women, too ;" replied. Hortensio, with a gallant 
bow and glance. The words, the bow, and the glance, caused her such a 
hot rush of confusion, as Bianca had never before experienced. She 
knew not which way to look ; while her friend exclaimed, — " What a 
shamefaced moppet thou art. Bianca ! Shut up in that dowdy old con- 
vent, thou hast heard nought but chidings, from teachers and nuns. 
But in the world, child, thou'lt hear quite other phrases ; commendation, 
not chiding, is the mode here abroad." 

"And the signorina Bianca must learn to bear bearing her own 
praises ; she'll hear little else, I fancy, when once she has exchanged 
the convent for the world ;" said Hortensio, with another bow, and 
another glance. 



THE SHFEW, AND THE DEMURE. 157 

Whether because the words, the bow, and the glance, were now ad- 
dressed solely to Bianca, without including herself, certain it is, that 
there was something in them which made Elvira rejoin — Ci Yes, mv dear, 
} r ou must learn to listen to praise in the world, without letting it turn 
your little head ! You'll give up blushing at fine speeches, when you 
discover that they mean just nothing at all. You'll soon care no more 
for the praises, than we used to do for the chidings ; and that was little 
enough. I believe ! But hush ! — what was that? — I thought I heard 



She put her finger on her lip — listened — then pointed stealthily in 
the direction whence Hortensio had come. The gesture was so signifi- 
cant, and so instantaneously obeyed by the young gentleman's sudden 
retirement over the wall, that Bianca could not help seeing it must have 
been a signal in frequent use between them on former occasions of the 
like kind. 

The next moment Elvira's guardian appeared in one of the garden- 
walks, approaching them ; and Bianca, if she had had courage to look up, 
might have perceived still farther and edifying proof, in the unmoved 
colour and expression of her friend's face, that she had said truly, she 
thought blushing for guardy a preposterous idea. Not even the gross 
deception she was playin'g off upon him, could excite one faintest redden- 
ing. On the contrary ; with hard glassy eye, and hard brassy voice, set 
in the -detestable firmness of triumphant, as well as habitual deceit, she 
said ; " I'm glad you're come, guardy ; I want to consult you about 
the dance you have promised me to give my schoolfellows. When shall 
it be ? " 

" Whenever it best pleases yourself to appoint, my charming Elvira; " 
said the gallant guardian, raising his ward's hand to his lips ; " only 
whenever the time fixed, remember that I claim this fair hand for the 
first dance." 

"We'll see about that, guardy ; " said Elvira, half coldly, half coquet- 
tishly withdrawing her hand, and giving him a pat on the back of his ; 
''• you' know I don't approve of such ways ! " 

" I know you are all discretion and propriety, my sweet Elvira:" 



158 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

said he, with a fond look, so different from the fatherly one it ought to 
have been, from a guardian to his ward, that Bianca could not help 
thinking he really did look, after all, very old and horrible. 

" Bianca darling, you take this sheet of paper, and write down the 
names of the guests we mean to invite, while guardy and I dictate them 
to you. Guardy shall tell you the young men, and I — no, stay, — I'll 
select the young men, and guardy shall name the young ladies we'll have. 
Of course we must ask your sister Katharina, Bianca dearest ; or she'll 
feel herself affronted, and I should be sorry to do that for your sake ; 
otherwise I'd rather be without ner ? What say you ? " 

" 0, she'd be highly affronted, if she were left out ; " said Bianca 
" she'd fret and fume for a week, and lead my father such a life ! Foi 
his sake, we must have her." 

" If we must, we must; " said Elvira. "And now, guardy, for the 
rest of the young ladies." 

While she bribed his attention and good-humour by letting him name 
all the prettiest girls of their acquaintance, she made out her own list of 
sparks ; artfully contriving to insert Hortensio's name, with a passing 
remark, uttered in a negligent off-hand way, to the effect that they could 
not well omit asking so near a neighbour, as they wanted all the eligible 
young men they could muster, to make up the requisite number of 
partners. 

An early day was fixed ; the interval being devoted by Elvira and 
Bianca to consultation upon the dresses they should wear, and to con- 
sideration and discussion of the mode in which they might altogether 
most becomingly set themselves off for the occasion. 

" Not that I care for dress, you know, my dear Elvira ; " said Bianca. 
" It is even sinful vanity, and waste of time, to bestow much time on 
adorning one's person ; a simple white frock and a few flowers in her 
hair and bosom are the utmost ornaments a young girl needs ; but I 
would fain put them on as advantageously as might be, that I may do 
honor to my friend's ball." 

Elvira laughed. " Vastly well, my little sanctimony ! That speech 
of thine would do mighty well for the convent ; and befits thee, who has 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 159 

just come thence. But I doubt me, Bianca darling, whether thou be'st 
not in good sooth, as arrant a little sly-boots, as the worst of us wicked 
worldlings." 

" Nay, Elvira ; I know not what thou mean'st. Sly-boots ! I ? " 

" Thou'rt right, sweetest ! That little innocent air of thine will do 
wonders with the men, by and bye. It'll tell, amazingly. They'll think 
thee a miracle of artlessness, meekness, and all-charming modesty." 

" What wild thoughts thou hast, Elvira ! I care not for attracting 
men's commendations, not I. How can'st thou think such wicked 
things?" 

14 I think them, because I know them. I know, that however we 
may see fit to make a pretence of bashfulness and pretty confusion, at 
the bare idea of a man's admiring us, it's the idea that creeps nearest 
the heart of all us school-girls from the very first moment we make out 
what's in a mirror. And depend on't, between ourselves, it's just such 
quiet girls as you and I, who know how to carry it demurely before nuns 
and teachers in the convent, and before duennas and guardians in the 
world, who most think of our looks, and of the impression they'll make. 
An out-speaker, a reckless doer, like your sister Katharina, now, though 
she seem to court attention by her violence of manner ; cares, in reality, 
little to attract, far less to secure admiration." 

" She wouldn't be so negligent of appearances, certainly, if she cared 
to win liking ;" mused Bianca. 

" Exactly, my dear ; you can see clearly what I mean, I perceive ;" 
said Elvira. " Best be candid between ourselves, whatever we may be 
to others." 

" Owning a thing to an intimate, — to a bosom-friend, is of course 
very different from showing our secret feelings to all the world ;" said 
Bianca. 

" Precisely, darling ; so now let's determine what flowers we'll wear. 
I think I shall have oleanders ; and you shall have a wreath of pome- 
granate-blossoms." 

"A simple lily will do for me ;" said Bianca. 

"Well done, simplicity!" laughed Elvira. "Your meekness knows 



tOO KATHAEINA AND BIANCA ] 

full well, that a single white flower will set off your golden curls bettei 
than a whole garland of scarlet showiness ; eh, Bianca?" 

" Red never did suit me ;" said Bianca. " It's too staring — too 
gaudy — I don't like to draw notice upou me, "by wearing such very 
bright- coloured flowers." 

'• Stick to the truth, my dear ; it popped out at first. Red don't be- 
come you !" answered her friend. 

" How can you. my dearest Elvira? But come, let us plan how you 
shall wear your oleanders. Shall they be placed on one side, in a droop- 
ing bunch ? Or twisted into a chaplet round the head ?." 



The party assembled at the ball was a very large one. There were 
all Elvira and Bianca's favorite schoolfellows, as well as a goodly com- 
pany of young people of both sexes. — neighbours and acquaintances ; 
besides whom, were some elderly members of the same families. Among 
the latter, was a madame Ciarla, — known to all Padua as an inveterate 
gossip, though a good-natured woman. 

On her first arrival, she found herself near Bianca, who had just 
advanced to receive her sister Katharina, and dutifully to ask news of 
her father. 

"Well, young ladies, I'm delighted to see you once again : and so 
grown and improved, I declare ! All Padua misses two such ornaments 
to its society as the signorini Minola, I can tell you." 

"Why should you flatter us?" said Katharina. 

"Flattery? Not a bit of it ! You are both very handsome girls; 
and as you'll soon be told so by all the young gallants, it's as well the 
news should be broke to you first by an old woman like m£. And it's 
no such unwelcome news, either. To be told that you have hair as black 
and as glossy as a raven's wing; and that your eyes sparkle like dia- 
monds, is no such hardship to hear, surely. And there's your sister, 
miss Bianca. quite a different style of beauty, to be sure ; but still, with 
her gold locks and blue eyes, and pink cheeks, — and then with that, 
modest glance — and that white frock, and pure lily — she looks so nice 
and so pretty, one could eat her." 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 161 

;: A dainty compliment !" said Katharina, with her short laugh. 

'•If you think me pretty — I mean good-looking — that is, not ugly," 
said Bianca, ' ; what will you say. when you see my friend. Elvira Blan- 
gini? She is indeed a lovely girl — a perfect beauty, isn't she, Kate?" 

" Far from it, — and you know it, Bianca ; but that's just your way ;" 
said Katharina, i; Your praise, when you give it. is such over-praise, 
that it seems like malice. When you tell people that Elvira Blangini 
is lovely — a perfect beauty — it's more likely to do your friend harm than 
good : for their feeling, when they see her, will be disappointment ; and 
they'll be inclined to find her even less pretty than they would have done" 
without your insidious praise." 

' ; I didn't see you at church last Sunday, miss Katharina ;" said 
madame Ciarla. anxious to effect a change in the conversation. 

' : I never go to church, if I can help it;" said Katharina. "It 
makes me feel so irreligious." 

" Fie, sister !" said Bianca ; •'- what a strange girl you are !" 

" Irreligious ? — going to church make you irreligious ? My dear 
young lady, what can you mean ?" said madame Ciarla. 

• L I mean that when I'm there, I see so much staring about them, so 
much irreverence, so much attention to everything but what they ought 
to be attending to, on the part of the congregation ; I hear such odd 
things said, I see such strange things done, that it puts me into a fever 
of anger, and of inclination to scoff, and doubt, and question ; makes me 
so undevout, so irreligious, so impious, that I avoid going to church on 
principle. I don't want to make myself worse than I am ; so I stay 
away." 

" I don't understand you, my dear ; said the old lady. Then, after 
looking for a moment more, in a wondering, puzzled way. at Katharina, 
who offered no farther explanation, madame Ciarla continued : — " I was 
quite disappointed not to see you there, with your father, good signior 
Minola ; and so were others. I fancy, who had heard wonders of the 
growth, and improvement in beauty, of his two fair daughters, since 
they've been so long away at school. There was signior Gremio, who 
had lost his old father, by-the-by, at last, and is. I hear, on the lcok-out 



162 

for a pretty young wife, to help him spend his large inheritance. And 
then there was young signior Giulio, who's grown quite a tall handsome 
young man : he shows no signs of the weakness and deformity that were 
predicted he would grow up with, if ever he reached to man's estate, in 
consequence of that terrible fall he had, when a ho\ r . But. bless me. I 
beg your pardon, miss Katharina ; I forgot all about it's haying been 
you who caused that accident. Your turning so red, reminded me : but 
he bears no malice about it — he neyer speaks of the matter, and seems 
to haye forgotten that such a thing eyer took place at all." 

" He was an ill-bred, teasing brat, and deserved all he got ;" said 
Katharina, " That's all I remember of him. I've forgotten him, quite 
as much as he has me." 

'• I dare say he hasn't forgotten you. my dear miss Katharina ; 5 ' said 
the old lady ; ,: indeed, I know he hasn't, for the other day, I heard him 
say " 

'• Best not speak of him ; my sister dislikes him ; it only irritates her 
to mention his name:" said Bianca, 

Her sister gave her a strange look, and seemed about to speak ; but 
she checked herself, bit her lips, and forced herself to listen to what ma- 
dame Ciarla was going on to say. 

•• Well, we'll speak of a gayer subject. It seems that signior Gremio 
is determined to celebrate his coming into his fortune, with a grand 
party, — quite a festival." 

'-• He's of age, certainly ; though a good deal more than twenty-one ;" 
sneered Katharina. 

" He is old, it must be owned ;" said madame Ciarla ; " nearer sixty 
than fifty. I take it : but, as he's only just come into his birth-right, and 
on the look-out for a young bride to share it with him, I dare say. there 
won't lack for pretty girls, at this grand party of his." 

"Very likely;" said Katharina. 

; ' I suppose we shan't see you there, miss Minola ;" said madame 
Ciarla : : - for young signior Giulio will certainly be asked : and as you've 
such a pique against him still, perhaps you won't like to meet him." 

" I shan't stay away on his account, depend upon it : I care too little 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 1G3 

about him, to let his presence prevent me from going wherever I like ;" 
said Katharina. with the same sudden color in her cheeks, as had flashed 
into them, on the first mention of his name. As she turned away. Bianca 
said to the old lady, " What a pity it is, my sister retains her animosities 
so bitterly, and so long. She never can bear that young man's name 
repeated. — though so many years have elapsed since their boy and girl 
quarrel, — without turning scarlet. I've remarked it frequently, whenever 
I've happened to revert to the subject ; which I have done sometimes, — 
quite inadvertently, of course." 

At this moment, Hortensio made his way up to Bianca, saying: — - 
' ; There is such a crowd, I have only just been able to reach you, signo- 
rina. Pity my Tantalus torture ; I have been watching you from a 
distance without being able to get near enough to beseech your hand for 
the dance." 

; ' Where is Elvira — will not she expect — -where is Elvira?" said 
Bianca, looking down, and picking the tip of her glove. 

' : She is dancing this measure with her guardian : let us find places 
anywhere ; the dancers are so numerous, we cannot be fastidious : nor 
shall I feel inclined to be so, were it the worst place in the room, with 
my present partner.— except, perhaps, for her sake." 

" Who is she ?'* said Bianca, looking up with an air of unconscious- 
ness worthy of one who had left school many years, instead of a few 
days. 

" The charming Bianca : when she deigns to accord me this fair 
hand." He seized it, and hurried her among the dancers. 

'•'• Look at my friend Elvira, yonder ; how exquisitively beautiful she 
looks, does she not, in the full bloom and animation of the dance V said 
Bianca to Hortensio. 

" It strikes me she looks a little sulky, at this, moment ;" he replied 
laughingly. 

: ' Ah ! can you wonder, with that ugly old man for her partner ? " 
said Bianca, casting a moment's glance at her own young dashing one, 
then casting her eyes down upon her spread fan. 

" He's an odious wretch certainly, to aspire to youth and beauty for 
a wife, which I fancy he does ; " said Hortensio. 



164 KATHARINA AND BIANCA ] 

"Yet he's almost warranted, by the great temptation. Is she not 
passing lovely 1 Did you ever see more brilliant carnation on a cheek ? 
Or hair more flowing, in its graceful disorder ? " persisted Bianca. 

" Her cheeks are even too florid for my notion of perfect beauty ; — 
and her hair is disordered indeed ! — untidy, I should call it ; with the 
exertion of dancing, I suppose. And what could possess her to put 
such odious flowers in her hair 1 — they make her face look all of a colour 
with themselves !" 

'You are a connoisseur in beauty and dress, I perceive, signior 
Hortensio ;" said Bianca, with a playful smile, and another furtive 
glance, 

"I hope I can recognize true loveliness when I see it;" said Hor- 
tensio. with an unequivocal look of admiration towards herself. " The 
pure and colourless modesty of the lily, has more charms for me, I con- 
fess, than all the oleanders that ever glowed." 

" Oh, but you really mustn't criticise my friend's looks, or her dress, 
too severely, merely to show your judgment, signior connoisseur. I 
cannot allow that. I think Elvira's wreath remarkably well chosen." 

" Inasmuch as harmony of colour constitutes tasteful choice ;" re- 
plied Hortensio. " The flowers match the cheeks precisely, it must be 
owned." 

" Fie, saucy critic that you are !" said Bianca. " See, Elvira has 
finished her dance, and is coming this way ; go and make atonement by 
engaging her for the next, or I'll never forgive you." 

" On that condition. I obey your mandate ;" said Hortensio, as he 
bowed, and quitted her. 

" I've performed my duty-dance, now for my pleasure-dance ;" said 
Elvira, holding out her hand to Hortensio, as he approached. " Who 
have you been dancing with ? Oh, I see ; my school friend, Bianca Mi- 
nola. A dear little innocent milk-and-water thing, isn't she? Talks 
bread-and-butter, — lisps white-of-egg ; but she's a darling creature, for 
all that ! I can endure her insipidity, for the sake of her sweetness ; 
she really is very sweet. But see here, what I have received ! An in- 
vitation for signior Gremio's grand party, next week. Mind you get 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 165 

one, also. The entertainment will be none to me, unless you're there ; 
so, be sure and come." 

" How can I fail, with such flattering inducement ?" said he. 

' ; Go along with you. wicked pretender ; it's you are the flatterer, 
I fear ;" she said, as she went on to take her usual vivacious part in the 
trifling that followed up the previous specimen. 

Signior Gremio's party was to be of the most, attractive description. 
The company were to assemble in the beautiful grounds of his estate, 
where means were amply, and in tasteful variety, provided for spending 
the day in one round of pleasant out-door amusement. There were, 
dancing, ball-playing, battledore-and-shuttlecock. archery, and all kinds of 
active sports, at the option of the young people ; there were swings put 
up among the trees, for such as preferred more lazy amusement ; and 
there were shady seats, and turf banks, and tents, and a pavillion con 
taining tables spread with ices, fruit, coffee, ' cedrata.' and all sorts of 
preserves, sweetmeats, and cakes, for those who preferred entire repose 
and refreshment. 

Among the earliest arrivals were Elvira's guardian, with his fair ward 
and her friend Bianca. Then came Baptista Minola, with his daughter 
Katharina. Then Hortensio : then madame Ciarla, with many others ; 
and then the rest of the guests poured in. in quick-succeeding groups. 
The host received them all with smiling courtesy ; and seemed bent on 
playing the young heir, just come into his estate. 

Some one of the guests, of a waggish turn, ventured to remark that 
it was generally understood, signior Gremio had convoked that fair 
assembly, to choose from among its fairer portion, the fairest, for his 
future bride. 

" Whenever I choose my future bride, she shall be the fairest, depend 
on't ;" jsaid signior Gremio, fixing his eyes as he spoke, on the light 
golden hair that fell in profusion round the pretty face of Bianca Minola. 

It was really edifying to see the innocent way in which she sat, 
plucking up the wild flowers on the turf beside her, looking the picture 
of soft unconsciousness — such as might have become a child of a few 
years' old, or a practised coquette of thirty : and after a pause, looking 



166 



KATHARINA AND BIANCA 



up into his face, and saying : " I hope you won't be very angry with me, 
signior Gremio, for despoiling the sward of these little ducks of daisies ; 
will )ou?" 

" All here is at the command of my fair guests, for their special be- 
hoof and gratification:" answered he; " they cannot confer a greater 
favor on me, than by appropriating them to that end ;" and he concluded 
by throwing himself on the turf beside her ; which act of gallantry 
caused his senile joints a pang that would have twisted his features into 
a grimace, had he not covered it with the nearest thing to a smile he 
could muster. 

There was a large group dispersed round the grassy bank on which 
Katharina, Bianca. and her friend Elvira, had seated themselves. The 
gentlemen lounged at the ladies' feet, or lay a little in the rear, or leaned 
against the surrounding trees ; while light talk, gay jests, and repartees, 
sometimes of compliment, sometimes of raillery, flew from one to another, 
and were bandied to and fro. 

Suddenly signior Gremio said, "I expect Giulio Vinci here to-day; 
he's not long returned from Naples, where he has been spending some 
time with an uncle of his, a captain in the marine service." 

Katharina's face flashed scarlet. 

"And who may Giulio Vinci be?" said Elvira 

''• A young friend of mine, for whom I've a great value. I rejoice 
that he has returned home time enough for my entertainment ;" said 
Gremio. 

" He's the boy I told you of, whom my sister was so unfortunate as 
to injure ;" said Bianca in Elvira's ear ; pressing her friend's arm, to 
draw her attention to Katharina's change of colour. 

Katharina overheard the words, and said loudly and passionately: — 
" If ever you speak of that again, I'll make your meek blue eyes as red 
as a ferret's, with my nails." 

There was an awkward pause. The company shrugged their shoul- 
ders, and exchanged significant looks, at this evidence of Katharina Mi- 
nola's unabated violence, and shrewish tongue; and then, by degrees, 
they broke up into little separate parties, talking low among themselves, 



THE SHREW, 



167 



Or proposing strolls among the trees, or joining the dancers, the ball- 
players, and the other sporters. 

" 1 shall despatch guardy to the house to fetch me a veil, or some- 
thing, under pretence of the heat ;" whispered Elvira to Bianca ; " and 
then take pity, on Hortensio, who has been leaning against a tree this 
half hour in hope of catching my eye, to beseech for a ramble together. 
I mustn't disappoint him, and make him despond altogether, poor fel- 
low !" 

Bianca had some notion that the impatient glances of Hortensio had 
been directed rather towards her own colloquy with signior Gremio, than 
towards her friend's with her guardian ; but she uttered no iota of her 
thoughts. Only nodded, and said: — '•'• Very well, dear ;" and then re- 
sumed the smiling attention she was paying to the old gallant at her 
side. 

Presently, signior Gremio proposed adjourning to the lawn, where 
the dancing and ball-playing were going on. He offered his arm to the 
two sisters to conduct them thither, saying: — ' ; I'll find you a partner, 
Miss Katharina : as for Miss Bianca, I hope she will favor me by be- 
coming mine " 

" Never mind me ; I shan't dance ;" said Katharina ; and when her 
companions had left her, she stood lost in thought, with her eyes fixed 
upon a certain tree, that she well remembered. Gradually, her eyes 
drooped, and fell to the ground ; her nether lip was compressed beneath 
her set teeth ; a frown gathered ; her nostrils sank and dilated, dilated 
and sank •; she breathed hard, and held her hands closely clenched, as 
she remained absorbed in reverie. 

Presently, a gay, hearty, good-humoured laugh reached her ear, and 
a few words were spoken. 

She started violently. 

" Then she heard the voice say : — " She's here, is she ? Object to 
meet her. To be sure not ; why should 1 1 " 

" How contemptuously he speaks ! " was her hurried thought. 

Then, accompanied by signior Gremio, Bianca, and others, Giulio 
Vinci came towards her. She was making up her mind to repulse him 



168 KATHARINA ANT> BIANCA-J 

haughtily, should he offer to shake hands with her, as she thought that 
would be from his wish to assume superiority over her, and to show hifl 
magnanimity of forgiveness ; when, on her turning round towards him 
he merely made her a passing bow, and turned to speak to some one else 

Soon after a game of ball was formed. A great number of the com- 
pany engaged in it; and it proceeded with spirit. 

Giulio Vinci had just made along run after the ball, and was toss- 
ing it up into the sky as high as he possibly could, and catching it, while 
he returned to the spot whence he was to pitch it into Bianca's hand, — 
her turn being to throw it next. 

As she caught it from him. she said : — " How active you are. signior 
Giulio ! what a mercy it is, that you've no lameness — no weakness re- 
maining from 3 T our accident ! we ought to be very thankful." 

The words were hardly out of her mouth, before Katharina snatched 
the ball from her sister's hands, and flung it over the wall. " I warned 
you not to allude to that again ! " she exclaimed. 

" Hey-dey, miss Miscetta ! Are these jour tricks still ? " exclaim- 
ed Giulio. turning suddenly towards her. Then, seizing her by the 
wrists, he cried out : — "Run, some of you. and fetch the ball. I'll hold 
thio little fury fast till you return." She writhed, and struggled : but 
not one jot could she move her wrists in his firm grasp. He laughed at 
her fruitless efforts to free herself, and said : — " You had to deal with a 
boy, then ; I'm a man now, Miscetta, and stronger than you are." 

" I care not for your strength. Let me go. I say ! " she exclaimed. 

He unclasped his hold, saying : — '■■ There, you are free ; but if you 
interfere any more with our game, you spoil-sport, I'll take care and 
prevent you effectually." 

She laughed a short mocking laugh, and her eyes flashed, as she said : 
— " I make no promises ! " 

"But I do ! and you'll see that I'll make them good: " said he. 

The ball w T as brought back ; and the game was resumed ; but the 
instant it became Bianca's turn to throw the ball, Katharina seized it 
from her, and threw it over the wall as before. 

She had no sooner done so, than Giulio caught her up in his arms 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 169 

and ran with her to a tree, at a little distance, near to which lay a cord 
that had been used for one of the swings. With this he proceeded to 
bind her to the tree, in spite of her frenzied stamping and struggling ; 
while the company half laughing, half concerned, at the scene, looked on, 
expecting to hear her flame out with her usual violence. 

But not a single word did she utter. 

At first, she panted, struggled, and strove her utmost to prevent his 
effecting his purpose, her face, all the while, crimson with rage. But, 
after a time she grew deadly pale. For while Griulio was binding her to 
the tree, she suddenly became aware that it was the same from which her 
own violence had caused his fall, years before: in his exertions to se- 
cure her, the hair became pushed back from his forehead, and she caught 
sight of the deep-seamed scar that marked the place of the wound her 
hand had given him. 

" A quite new and strange set of emotions overwhelm her. and hold 
her. as it were, paralysed in speech and motion. A perplexing feeling 
of shame and surprise takes possession of her. at finding .herself com- 
pletely overcome. — mastered. As the strong, manly arms, hold her firm- 
ly, constrained there to abide his will, she feels her spirit as well as her 
body give way. and own itself vanquished. One of the most singular 
features of this new state of feeling, is. that the sense of defeat, for the 
first time in her life, is not altogether painful. As her woman's frame 
involuntary yields to his masculine strength — as her feeble limbs bend 
beneath his will, and submit to his power, there is an inexplicaple acqui- 
escence, an absence of resentment and resistance, altogether unwonted, 
and surprising to herself. 

Her silence, her turning pale, her ceasing from struggle and opposi- 
tion, made Giulio. in his turn, relent. '• Say you'll not meddle with the 
ball again, and I'll undo the cords :" he said. 

She looked into his face ; but was literally unable to speak. 

Taking her non-reply for stubbornness, he turned on his heel, say- 
ing : — "When you're tired of your bonds, you can cast them off oy a 
word. Call to me. — promise to let the ball alone, and I'll come and re- 
lease you." 



170 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

When lie returned to the ball-pla} T ers, he found several gentlemen 
standing round Bianca, engaged in bewailing the scratches which her 
sister's rough seizure of the ball from her hands had inflicted ; she. with 
pretty shrinkings, and delicate hesitations, now winding her handker- 
chief about them, and now unwrapping and showing the scarce percepti- 
ble red marks, and lines, wliich made the little dainty trembling hands 
look only the whiter — a fact of which she was of course unconscious. 

" Let me give you my arm to the pavillion, signorina Bianca ;" said 
signior Gremio ; " a little iced water with wine in it will restore you." 

" A glass of water, then ; for I own I feel a little faint: — perhaps, 
with the loss of blood. Bat a glass of water merely — no wine — I never 
touch it — I couldn't think of such a thing." 

The sympathetic train of gentlemen attended her. as she proceeded 
to the pavillion ; and the rest of the bystanders took the opportunity of 
following their example, to obtain some refreshment. 

Giulio was following the crowd ; but he turned back, went to the tree 
where he had left Katharina bound, and unfastened the cords. When 
he had released her, he drew her arm within his, and led her to the pa- 
villion with the rest. There was something in this silent attention on 
his part — in the quiet decision of his manner — relieving her of all ne- 
cessity for aught but passive acceptance, that was strangely pleasant to 
Katharina. She walked unresistingly by his side, — obeying his impulse, 
bis intention. 

But as they entered the pavillion, some one said : — :; Here comes 
signior Giulio, with his fair enemy. He has given her quarter ; and 
there's a truce to hostilities, for the present. Let's hope peace will 
last." 

" See, he has linked his captive to his chariot wheels ;" said another. 
" Or is it the generous support accorded by a conqueror to his vanquish- 
ed foe?" 

•' I need no support ;" said Katharina, withdrawing her hand sud- 
denly from Giulio's arm, and pushing him from her with an angry ges- 
ture. But she belied her words, by dropping on a seat, as she spoke. 

" My friend Giulio is making the most of his time, in gallant beha- 



THE SHREW. AND THE DEMURE. 171 

viour to his fair enemies on shore, as he is so sood to encounter the ene- 
mies of his country on sea:" said signior Grremio. " My friend has just 
obtained a commission on board of one of our war vessels. He leaves 
as. I join his ship, this very evening " 

A smothered cry burst from the lip of Katharina. To Hortensio, 
who happened to be handing her some cakes, she said: — "What's the 
f holding the plate to me "- Don't you see I can't take any .- My 
hand's useless: my wrist is sprained." 

•• My poor sister ! It's all owing to you. I fear, signior Giulio :" said 
Bianca : while her sister east a burning glance at her. •• You would 
bind her hands so tight round the tree. I'm really afi^id you've hurt 
her wrists with the cord-.'' 

; - Xo matter : :: replied he. laughingly : K it'll do her good — teach her 
to take heed when she's sj h n to. another time. She don't mind hurt- 
ing and scratching others. Besides, she shouldn't have struggled as she 
did at first, if she didn't want the cords to hurt her. It'll be a good les- 
son to her how to obey : she'll learn what a man's power is. — and that a 
woman's best policy, to say nothing of her best interest, is to submit 
gracefully, and of her own accord, to that which can extort submission 
from her inferior strength," 

But presently, under shelter of the talk and laughter of the other 
young people, which was speedily resumed. Giulio came round to the 
spot where Katharina was sitting, and said: — "Let me look at your 
wrist : I didn't mean to hurt you seriously. I hope I haven't really 
hurt you. ;: 

She raised her eyes to his face, with a strange expression of eager- 
ness and scrutiny. 

■• Let me look at it. I say. I should be sorry if your wrist were 
really sprained, though you are a sad tigress. Miscetta." 

-Don't touch it ! Let it alone!" And she snatched the hand away, 
which she had just before extended towards him. 

He laughed. ■■ You are a sad tigress, now. an't you ? A wild cat. — 
a cat-o'-mountain. — anything fierce, and savage, and fury-like ?" 

" "What people make me out to be. they may take me for '" she said ; 



172 

and she leaned over the sprained hand, and held it to her bosom, and 
rocked herself to and fro ; while a hot tear or two fell upon it. 

Giulio saw them ; for he was looking earnestly at her, watching her 
with curiosity and interest ; and the thought came into his head, whether 
she might not be in some measure right — that the character of scold and 
shrew, so universally given to her, wrought the very evil it ascribed — 
that it worked upon such a disposition as hers in making her worse than 
she naturally was — that it made her sore and irritable, and chafed her 
into fury, rudeness, and violence. He saw that taunts and reproaches 
were so far from correctives, that they but served as stimulatives to her 
temper; when, to proper controul, and a firmly maintained authority, it 
might probably be taught to yield. He was getting so far as to wonder 
whether by some one whom she could respect, and who would in return 
respect her foibles. — or rather treat them with toleration and forbear- 
ance, yet with judicious restraint. — she might not be reclaimed ; when 
Hortensio called to him, and begged him to show the company the letter 
he had had from his uncle the ship's captain, who had ^iven him an ap- 
pointment on board his own vessel. 

Giulio joined them ; took out his letter, and began reading it aloud. 
It contained some very kind expressions of his uncle's pleasure at his 
Laving chosen his own favorite profession ; promised to undertake his 
outfit ; and gave him some good advice. Thus Giulio was proceeding, 
when one of the young gentlemen present, seized with a fit of caprice, or 
a fit of jealousy, exclaimed : '• Come, we have had enough of the old 
admiral's prosing. I wonder you an't ashamed of repeating so many 
praises of yourself, Giulio. Here, away with it ! And let us have some 
more ball-playing on the lawn." Saying which, with a fillip of the finger 
and thumb beneath the open sheet of paper, he sent it spinning out of 
Giulio's hand. The air caught it, and was blowing it across the room 
towards an open window, when, just as it passed Katharina, and Giulio 
made an eager exclamation, she sprang up. and seized it, just in time. 

'• She has caught it with her sprained hand, I declare i" remarked 
Bianca. 

"And after all the fuss she made about her hurt !" said Elvira. " It 



173 

could not have been very painful, one would think, if she could use her 
hand so nimbly as that." 

At these words Katharina darted an angry look towards them ; and, 
crumpling up Griulio's letter in both hands, flung it right in her sister's 
face. 

Griulio laughed ; fetched his letter, and while he smoothed it out. and 
folded it up. to put it into his pocket, he said: — •• I thank you, neverthe- 
less, signora Katharina, for saving my letter ; though you might have 
returned it to me in a more gracious manner." 

Bianca meanwhile was making a vast deal of the blow on the lips she 
had received from the, paper missile ; calling upon signior Gremio and 
Hortensio to see how swollen her lip was ; and receiving from them 
many assurances that the protuberance she pointed out to them, was 
only its natural pretty pouting rounding and fullness — that it was coral- 
red, and by no means black-and-blue, &c. &c. 

Then Griulio took leave of his friend signior Gremio, saying it was 
high time he should be on his journey. He addressed a few farewell 
words to some among the company that were known to him ; and at 
length came up to Katharina. 

- Come •" said he to her ; " let you and me part friends, for all that's 
past and gone between us. Shake hands with me — to show you have no 
malice." 

She stood up. .trembling violently, but made no answer : and kept her 
eyes fixed on the floor. — her face, neck, and arms, one glow of crimson. 

" Thou'rt a strange creature ;" he said. " But come, it may be for 
the last time ; shake hands." 

She seemed immovable. 

"If you won't, you won't ; I can't help it, Miscetta." 

At that word, as if stung, she exclaimed, — lifting her eyes, and flash- 
ing them upon him. — - I hate you !" 

- I know you do : you've proved that long ago ;" he said, laughing ; 
" but I owe you no grudge. Farewell !". 

He turned away to the rest. Stationed them at the window from 
which they could see him at the last visible point on the road he was 



174 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

about to take. " And then, when I turn, and wave my hat. do you all 
give me three loud cheers. And mind you marshal them, Hortensio ; 
and see that the girls don't huzza out of time : they always will cheer 
badly. — either starting off before any one else is ready to begin. — or else 
raggedly, one after the other, — dropping in with a little additional 
scream when every body else has done." 

He dashed out of the room, exclaiming " Goodbye all !" And then 
there was a huddling round the window, and a pressing, and crowding, 
and chattering : and little exclamations, from time to time, of :: I see 
him ! No, do you ; where ? yes, there ! Now he's going out of the 
gate — -now he's going along the road — now he's coming to ^he turning — 
now he's reached the point. I see! he turns, and waves his hat! Huz- 
Ea ! Huzza ! Huzza ! " 

As the echo of the last cheer rang through the pavillion, and died 
away in the distance, a deep sob was heard. 

The party of young people started, and turned round. Bianca point- 
ed stealthily to the seat on which Katharina lay at full length, with her 
face buried in her arms. 

;: Well ;" said Elvira : " I think it is most unfeeling, not to say very 
selfish, of Katharina. — you'll excuse my saying so of your sister, Bianca 
my love. — but it certainly is very unfeeling and selfish of her, to be 
lying there, moaning and groaning, over her sprained wrist, instead of 
rousing herself to give a parting cheer to such a nice fellow as G-iulio. 
Why didn't you join in the huzzas for the young sailor, Katharina?" 
added she, raising her voice that Katharina might hear what she said. 

'• I can't huzza :" said Katharina in a thick husky voice. 

''• She can't huzza for him ;" said Bianca. in a low tone. " That's it. 
She can't bring herself to huzza in his honor ; — -she never could bear 
him, — quite as a child." 

"I remember;" said maclame Ciarla ; "when both were children, 
they quarrelled dreadfully, and— — " 

She was interrupted by Katharina ; who started up, saying : — '•'• And 
you. — all of you. — how came you to be able to huzza for your friend ? 
Mighty fond of him you must be, to be sure, to cheer and huzza at his 
going away !" 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 175 

" 0, if you're going to quarrel. Katharina, I'm off;" said Elvira. 
u 5Tou know there must always be two to a quarrel; and I never choose 
to quarrel with you — I should be sure to get the worst of it." 

" You always have the worst of it, you should say, in your meanness, 
your sly pretences, your mock-modesties, and your show-offs of meek- 
ness, propriety, forbearance, and all the rest of the maidenly decorums 
which you and my hopeful sister affect ;" said Katharina. 

Elvira only shrugged her shoulders, and went away with Bianca, 
softly tittering and whispering together ; followed by their train of gen- 
tleman-admirers. 

For some days afterwards, Katharina remained more than commonly 
silent, and lost in thought ; peevish, and tart, if spoken to ; and \ -ry 
restless in her mood. 

At this period, Bianca's visit to Elvira concluded ; and she return- 
ed home to her father's house. By a compact between the two friends, 
they contrived to coax their respective household authorities. — Elvira, 
her guardian, and Bianca. her father. — into the persuasion that any far- 
ther schooling was unnecessary for them ; and they were, in consequence, 
to return no more to the convent. Masters were henceforth to be en- 
gaged, that their education might receive the finishing polish. Bianca 
professed her love for study, books, and music, with an enthusiasm, 
which quite charmed her father, signior Minola : but which might have 
called forth some sneer from Katharina relative to the slight amount of 
either, that sufficed her sister at the convent, had not her attention been 
wholly absorbed in other thoughts. 

In one of her restless moods, not a week after the entertainment at 
signor Gremio's, Katharina took a rambling walk down the road that 
skirted his estate. On one side of this road, there was a sort of dry 
ditch, or grass-grown hollow, that sloped upwards with a low green bank, 
surmounted by a hedge, which enclosed the extensive grounds belong- 
ing to him. 

By some impulse, — unacknowledged to herself, — Katharina climbed 
up this bank, and crept into the hedge, holding by a young olive-tree 
which grew there, while she looked earnestly into the enclosure. She 



176 

soon distinguished the tree which grew upon the lawn ; and for some 
time kept her eyes fixed upon it, her thoughts recalling the scenes with 
which it was associated. Again she saw the laughing boy seated there, 
idly cracking nuts, and carelessly swinging his legs ; — the rustle among 
the boughs, — the fall — the bleeding temple — the pale face — the insensi- 
ble form, borne away apparently lifeless. " I owe you no grudge — I 
owe you no grudge.' ; her lips murmured. 

Then she beheld the struggle, when he bound her there, to its trunk. 
She felt the clasping masterful arms — she saw the scar gleaming beneath 
the locks of hair — she felt once more that sight, and the force of manly 
strength and will, bending her to a half-reluctant, half-pleased yielding, 
beneath their combined potency of influence. And again she murmured ; 
— '■ I owe you no grudge — Farewell ! ; ' 

At that instant, voices approach along the road. Katharina shrinks 
closely within her leafy covert, holding fast by the olive sapling. The 
voices come nearer ; and one of them, — which Katharina recognizes for 
that of madame Ciarla. — says : — " Yes, indeed, a frightful piece of news ! 
Frightful in itself — frightful in its suddenness. So young ! So full of 
life and hope ! His first voyage, too. Just as he joined his ship — while 
he stretched forth his hand to seize the rope by which he was to scram- 
ble up her side to the gangway, the boat beneath him gave a lurch, and 
the poor young fellow fell overboard, sank, and was drowned It is sup- 
posed, he struck his head against the keel of the vessel, for he never rose 
to the surface after he once went down." 

" It's a shocking thing indeed, though I don't know the young man ; " 
said the other voice ; " What did you say his name was? " 

" Uiulio Vinci. — Bless me ! what was that ? A groan ? " 

The speakers stop, and listen. " No ; nothing." The voices die 
away ; and Katharina dropped from the bank into the grass-grown chan- 
nel at its foot. She lay there some time, as if stunned. At length she 
returned to a sort of half-conscious, dreamy state, in which she got up 
and went home. The action of walking in some measure restored her ; 
but she was still frightfully pale ; which attracted her father's attention, 
and caused him to reproach her for being so perverse as to go out in the 
sun, during the heat of the day. 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 177 

In the afternoon, just as the family were going to sit down to their 
collation of fruit, eggs, coffee, and bread and butter, Katharina happened 
to cast her eyes through the window, and saw madame Ciarla approach- 
ing the house. She instantly felt that the visitor was come to tell the 
fatal news. 

Katharina went to the table, seized up a knife, and began cutting 
bread and butter. In came the gossiping old lady; and not a minute 
elapsed before she was launched into the midst of her story. 

-Yes, too true ! Poor dear young man ! Drowned ! Dead ! " 

Katharina dropped the knife, and held her clasped hands close be 
neath her chin. 

" What's the matter now ? " said her father. 

" Poor Kate's crying ; " said Bianca; " Though she couldn't eidure 
him, yet she's shocked to hear of his death. 

Katharina gave her one of her fiercest looks. 

"What's amiss with your hand, miss Katharina ? There's blood 
trickling down your arm;" said madame Ciarla. "Why, you've cut 
your finger ! and mercy me ! — very deep too ! Let me bind it up. See 
how it ; s staining your frock ! " 

" You see, Bianca, my girl, you gave your sister credit for too much 
feeling — at least, too much feeling for others ; she's crying over her own 
cut finger, not the poor drowned lad," said Baptista Minola. 

" Nay," said Bianca, " I think it was G-iulio's death, for " 

" How can you — how dare you, repeat his name 1 Take that, to re- 
mind you never to do so again in my hearing." And Katharina dashed 
a cup of hot coffee smack into her sister's neck. 

Bianca screamed. 

" Plague of my life ! You've scalded your unoffending sister to death. 
Come hither, my Bianca. As for you, shameless, spiteful hilding! Be- 
gone toyour room ! and let me see no more of thee, until thou can'st 
behave less like a fiend, more like a christian." 

Katharina flung out of the room — rushed up to her own chamber — ■ 
locked the door — threw herself on the bed. — and wept long and bitterly. 

The intimacy between Bianca Minola and Elvira Blangini. continued 



178 KATHARINA AND BIANCA ] 

as strongly as ever. Not a day passed, but the girls met at each other's 
houses. Now it was some flower, or some gossip, or some new stitch, or 
some new fancy, that had to be shown, imparted, and discussed. They 
were as profuse as ever, of their epithets of " dear," and 4i darling," 
" sweet," and " love," to each other, as they had always been. They 
kissed each other as fondly, they sat together as closely, they whispered 
to each other as confidentially as before. But notwithstanding all this, 
there was a feeling of mutual restraint ; and a sense of hollowness in 
their friendship, that grew upon them more and more. Perhaps for this 
very reason, they increased in outward demonstrations of attachment, 
and professions of regard; so that every one remarked, how beautiful 
was the affection between these two young girls, and how touching to see 
their school-liking still preserved in such strength and constancy. 

In secret, however, the hollowness grew and grew, until scarcely 
more than the mere empty husk of their sworn bosom-friendship was 
left. It was like the rind of a pear, eaten out: by wasps and earwigs ; all 
the pulp and sweetness sucked forth, while the worthless outside remain- 
ed — a mere show and semblance of the fruit it once was. 

Elvira's whole stock of vanity — and it was by no means small — could 
no longer blind her to the fact that she had ceased to be the sole object 
of Hortensio's attentions. She had so long been accustomed to believe 
them exclusively her own, that it was very difficult to persuade herself, 
that he was any other than her devoted though unavowed adorer. She 
for some time continued to look upon his gallant speeches to Bianca, as 
only a sort of reflection of the admiration which lie felt for herself; a 
kind of liking for her friend, for her sake. But when they were not only 
repeated and multiplied, but assumed more and more of warmth in tone 
and manner, and were accompanied by significance of look and expres- 
sion that were almost unmistakable, she began to think of some strong 
measure for recalling him to his allegiance, such as her self-love, and her 
long belief in his attachment, would not suffer her to imagine could fail. 

She determined to bring to a decided avowal the long-hinted senti- 
ments of her guardian ; doubting not that, when her younger lover 
should be threatened with the chance of losing her, by a definite proposal 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMURE. 179 

of marriage from another it would frighten him into a summary declara- 
tion of his own passion. 

With so unscrupulous a coquetry as hers, with so cold a heart, so 
artful a nature, aud so wily a tongue, it may be supposed that she was 
not long in effecting her purpose, so far as her elder prey was concerned. 
The amorous old gentleman, her guardian, caught only too eagerly at 
the bait held out to him. He snapped at once ; made his proposal in 
form ; offered to make what settlements she chose ; and entreated her but 
to follow up her kind encouragement by forthwith promising to be his. 

She, with well-affected modesty and discretion, required a few hours 
to consider of his proposal ere she gave her final answer ; and then, hav- 
ing made sure of his absence from home, by entreating him to pay a 
visit to a friend whose estate lay at some distance, on the plea of wishing 
to have complete solitude for the important self-consultation which was 
to decide the happiness of her life, she took her way to the summer-house 
in the garden, and was not long in contriving to summon Hortensio to 
her side. 

In the conversation that ensued, she found, to her dismay, that she 
had entirely miscalculated the aim of his affections. He plainly told 
her they were fixed on her friend Bianca ; and by pretending not to see 
the amazement caused by his announcement, he effectually turned the 
tables on her own duplicity. 

•Her pride enabled her to make some show of concealing her disap- 
pointment, her resentment, and the crowd of conflicting feelings that 
tormented her ; but the moment she decently could, she dismissed him. 
left the summer-house, and retired to her own room, where she threw 
herself into an arm-chair, and meditated on what should now be her 
course of conduct. 

Her first feeling was of despair at having so fatally mistaken the 
sentiments of one, whom she now felt she loved but too fondly. Her 
next, was one of rage, that he should have so fickly transferred to 
another, that preference, which she flattered herself was fixed upon 
herself. Her next, that of detestation at the arts and blandishments of 
the little flirt who had lured him from her. In her despair, she rung her 



180 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

hands, and vowed she would die. In her rage, she ground her teeth, 
and vowed she would turn her love into hate. In her detestation, she bit 
her lips until the blood sprang, and vowed she would have revenge. But 
at length, her despair, her rage, her detestation, found consolation in the 
thought that she would best satisfy them all three by an immediate 
acceptance 0/ her guardian's offer of marriage. By this act, she would 
proclaim her indifference to the treachery of her lover and her friend ; 
and by the wealth and importance it would secure, give her the means of 
eclipsing, mortifying, and triumphing, over them. 

The thought of this, enabled her to meet her guardian on his return 
home with spirits sufficient to play him off a scene of coquettish compli- 
ance — of affected coyness, hesitation, reluctance, pretty diffidence, and 
young-lady fastidiousness, with a pretence of smothered liking bejeath 
all. that put the old inamorato into a fever of admiration and delight. 
On the strength of it. he. of his own accord, gave directions to the no- 
tary that, in case of his death she should be secured mistress of all his 
wealth, by a no less ample jointure, than by constituting her his sole le- 
gatee. 

Elvira was not long in giving herself the first of her proposed indem- 
nifications for the sacrifice she considered she had just made of her 
youth and beauty. She called upon her friend Bianca Minola, to an- 
nounce her approaching marriage. 

" To your guardian ! My clearest creature." said Bianca, " how could 
you think of accepting him? he's old enough to be your father. It is 
an absolute sacrilege to think of giving such passing loveliness, as yours, 
my darling Elvira, to such a battered old beau as that !" 

" I must entreat you to remember, my sweet Bianca. that you speak 
now of my future husband ; and I really cannot permit your partiality 
for your friend to lead you into the sin of injustice and disrespect to- 
wards my lord and master." 

" I do him but justice, surely, when I say he is too old for my beau- 
tiful Elvira?" said Bianca. '-'• my dear ! Don't let the phantom of 
riches dazzles you to the misery of devoting yourself to a silly disagree- 
able old man. " 



THE SHREW, AXD THE DEMURE. 181 

" He is neither silly, disagreeable, nor — so very old :" said Elvira. 

" Is he not silly in wishing to purchase a young wife with his money? 
Is he not disagreeable in his attempts to play off the young lover and 
husband ? Is he not old enough to be your father ? And oh. my dear, 
darling, sweetest Elvira, consider how little can money compensate for 
disparity of years. See here, darling, what a beautiful string of pearls. 
and what a handsome Venice chain, and what a rich damask silk. I have 
had sent me by a suitor of mine But in spite of all these fine gifts. I 
assure you. I don't mean to be tempted — nothing should induce me! 
He's too old for me — it would be wrong, quite wrong: and therefore I 
shall refuse him." 

- And who is he?" said Elvira: unexpectedly in the position of hear- 
ing her friend's triumphs, rather than detailing her own. 

'■ Old signior Gremio : he pesters me out of my life. So does sig- 
nior Hortensio. I shall certainly have to complain to my father if 
these suitors persist in plaguing me so. Not a day passes but one or the 
other of them is sending me some fine token or other, of their trouble- 
some attachment." 

" Troublesome ! Hortensio's attachment troublesome ! Why do 
you encourage him. then, if you find his attachment so troublesome?" 
said Elvira. 

•• Encourage him ! Goodness. I don't encourage him. But how can 
I help it. if he will admire, and besiege me. and load me with attentions, 
and presents, and protestations : swearing that he worships me, and me 
only, and that he's dying for me." 

- He swears that, does he ?" said Elvira. 

- la. yes ! And fifty absurd things beside, of the same kind. 
But I'm not so silly as to believe a word of it. you know, darling, of 
course." 

: - Of course not;" said her friend rising to depart, and giving her a 
farewell kiss on the forehead. ; - You. so honest, so transparent, so inno- 
cent, so truthful, so artless, and so modest, know better than to credit 
the flatteries, insincerities, and false praise, of such men as Hortensio, — 
of such beings as suitors. Thev'rc all alike." 



182 KATHARINA AND BIANCA J 

'• That's the only merit of an old one:" said Bianca; "they're mora 
sincere, perhaps ; but then they're in every respect so odious. Goodbye, 
dearest darling! Since you are bent on having your ancient spouse — ■ 
although (excuse the partiality of a friend) I think you're wrong — may 
all felicity. — all possible felicity. — attend your nuptials !" 

'• Hollow, deceitful, treacherous toad !" ejaculated Elvira, as she left 
her friend's house. 

The marriage was. — in deference to the bridegroom's impatience' — to 
take place in a few days. And immediately after the ceremony, the 
new-married couple left Padua for a beautiful villa they possessed, a few 
miles out of town. 

A week after the wedding, madame Ciarla paid a visit to the Minolas, 
full of news she had just received It was no other than that on the 
previous day, Elvira's husband had been seized with a fit of apoplexy, 
which after a few hours' duration, had put an end to his life. 

" Shocking, isn't it? Not a week married, and already a widow! So 
young too, poor thing !" said madame Ciarla in conclusion. 

; - How interesting she'll look in her widow's weeds, poor darling thing !" 
remarked Bianca 

' ; All ! you deserve to be a beauty yourself, as you are, my dear Miss 
Bianca :" said the old lady, who was more good-natured than deep sighted. 
'•You are never backward in praising the beauty of others." 

" I hope I know my duty better than to be envious, or anything that 
is wrong and wicked ;" said Bianca. 

" Dear young lady ! you are famed far and wide for your mild be- 
haviour, your beauty, and your modesty. Well would it be if your sister 
would take pattern by you." 

'• 0. but she dislikes taking pattern — and she says she hates model- 
people. Poor dear Katharina!" sighed Bianca. " She disdains to imitate 
excellence. She does not wish to be good. She has not the least virtuous 
emulation. Poor dear Kate !" 

Time went on. The young widow remained in wealthy seclusion at 
her villa. Bianca's character for sweetness, and artless modesty increased 
while Katharina, — her temper irritable and morose, her manner violent 



THE SHREW, AND THE DEMTTRE. 183 

and abrupt, her voice harsh, her words insolent. — gained the reputation 
of being a confirmed shrew. Her father, Eaptista Minola, tired out with 
her conduct. — yet forgetting how much of its cause might be traced i-2 
his own habit of reproach, and to his having failed to see that she was 
surrounded with proper and curative influences of education, in moral 
and mental discipline, — found himself perpetually longing to get rid of 
her presence, by her marriage with some one who would remove her out 
of his way. out of his house, out of his daily seeing and hearing. 

About this time he learned the views of signior Gremio and signior 
Horteusio, with regard to his youngest daughter, Bianca. But he in- 
formed them, that until his el J est was disposed of in marriage, he could 
not think with parting with her sister ; adding, that either of them were 
welcome to take Katharina. This btimation. — as might be expected 
from its unfatherly want of delicacy, — was received slightingly and with 
open disrespect by the two gentlemen. Their proposals, Baptista Mino- 
la's reply, and the rejoinder, happened to be made in both the daughters' 
presence ; and. enraged to hear herself thus treated, Katharina turned 
sharply to her father, saying : — 

" I pray you sir, is it your ivill 
To make a stale of mr among these mates ?" 

The conversation going on angrily, Bianca says, first to Katharina, 
then to her father : — 

" Sister, content you in my discontent. 
Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe: 
My books and instruments shall be my company; 
On them to look, and practise by myself.' 1 '' 



How the shrew is tamed into the submissive wife ; how the scolding 
tongue becomes schooled to duteous accents ; how the beauteous modesty 
and maiden mildness, show in their demure intrigues, their clandestine 
flirtations, their sly construings, with music-master and book-man, acl 



184 

in their open unmasking, and native insolence of self-assertion, the mo- 
ment the marriage-tie is knit, and the husband secured ; are all set forth 
by cne to whom the author of this poor story says : — 

" Well, you are come to me in happy time, 
The rather for 1 have some sport in hand. 
Wherein your cunning can assist me much. 1 ' 



TALE VIII. 

OPHELIA; THE ROSE OF ELSIXORE. 



"O Rose of May ! 
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia !" 

Hamlet. 



The babe lay on the nurse's knee. Could any impression Lave been 
received through those wide-stretched eyes, that stared as wonderingly 
as if they were in fact beholding amazed the new existence upon which 
they had so lately opened, the child would have seen that it lay in a 
spacious apartment, furnished with all the tokens of wealth and magnifi- 
cence, which those ruder ages could command. There were thick hang- 
ings of costly stuff to exclude the keen outer air and chill mists of that 
north climate. The furniture of the room was constructed of the rarer 
kind of woods, and fashioned with the utmost skill and taste in design then 
attained. The dogs that sustained the fir clumps blazing on the hearth, 
were of classical form and device : and the andirons on either side, were 
of a no less precious material than silver. The sconces round the apart- 
ment were of the same metal ; while the spoon, cup, and other utensils 
appropriated to the infant's use were of gold. Could any dawning sense 
of external objects yet have made its way to the brain through those 
wide-stretched violet eyes, they might have noted that a tall figure, of 
graceful mien, of gracious aspect, frequently came to bend over, and 



188 



OPHELIA 



utter murmured words of joy and tenderness, and breathe mother's bless- 
ings upon the little baby head. They might have perceived that another 
figure of less gentle aspect, but kindly and fond, would come to look 
upon the little daughter lately vouchsafed to him ; and that still another, 
a young boy, would advance on tiptoe to peep at, and touch very care- 
fully, the strange baby sister. Of the large broad good-humoured face 
that more constantly hung over it ; of the huge splay hand that en- 
closed its own diminutive one in the recesses of the crumby palm; of 
the white amplitude of warmth, and softness, and comfort, and repose, 
against which the babe buried its nose and nestled its cheek, and from 
which it drew forth delicious streams of nourishment, the wide-stretched 
violet eyes probably gained clearer perception ; for they learned to look 
eagerly for these evidences of the presence and the ministry of the good 
peasant woman, who had been engaged to perform the office of wet-nurse 
and foster-mother to the little Ophelia, — daughter of the lord Polonius, 
and of the lady Aoudra. 

There were extensive gardens belonging to the nobleman's house; 
and in these the good nurse Botilda would carry her baby charge up and 
down, during the more genial hours of the day; while by the side of 
child and nurse, gambolled the young boy. Laertes. When the violet 
eyes learned to distinguish objects upon which they rested, they grew 
fond of dwelling upon the lively brother, of following his antics, of 
watching his sports ; and then baby would crow, and spring, and leap 
in the nurse : s arms, with sympathetic delight at his active movements. 

When the sun faded from the gravel-paths, and the shadows length- 
ened, and the watchful nurse knew that the mists and dews of evening 
were stealing on, to take the place of the earlier afternoon warmth, she 
would carry her nursling in doors, and lull it to sleep upon her lap, and 
hush it against her bosom, crooning ends of old-word ditties, and scraps 
of antique ballads, such as she knew. 

The lady Aoudra's attendant. Kraka, one day saw fit to call the rustic 
nurse to account for the subject of one of these songs, which struck her 
town-bred notions as somewhat lacking in the matter of decorum. " Hast 
thou ne'er a cradle-song, or proper nursery-rhyme, good Botilda, to chant 



THE HOSE OF ELSINORE. 



189 



to my lady's baby? The songs thou choosest for the child's lullaby, are 
none of the most seemly for the purpose, to my poor thinking." 

"I choose them not ;" answered the peasant; ; ' my stock of songs, 
God wot. is none so large, that I may pick and choose. I'm fain to sing 
such as I know ; I care not for the sense, so that the sound serves to 
lull my little one ; it matters not for the meaning, which is none to her, 
so that the tune helps to keep her quiet and to close her eyes." 

'■ There's no knowing how soon a babe may catch a meaning," said 
the lady's maid, tossing her head : " meanings ; — ' specially naughty 
meanings, — are sooner caught than you. in your country rudeness, might 
suppose, good mistress- Botilda. There's no telling how early a child 
may spy out wickedness in words — they're so 'cute in listening, and pre- 
tending not to understand, and all the while making out a deal that they 
oughtn't. There's much more o'that going on, than you'd think, mis- 
tress Botilda." 

" Of a surety, children are not the only ones to spy out wickedness, 
and catch naughty meanings, where no harm's intended : and then mak- 
ing a pretence of over-innocence, — the more's the pity ;" replied the 
nurse. " But as for my poor foolish old songs, I can't think they'd do 
mischief to any one that isn't set upon seeing more in' em than's meant — 
let alone a sucking-babe, that makes out nought of the words but the 
chime and the rhyme they make." 

; * No harm? no mischief?" exclaimed Kraka ; 'why. there's that tawdry 
nonsense you sing about St. Valentine's day. I should like to know 
what you make out of that ; good mistress Botilda?" 

• ; I leave it to you, to make out what you have a faney for from it. 
mistress Kraka ;" said the nurse quietly. '• I can only say. as I said be- 
fore, no need to mind the words of my song, so that the tune soothes my 
baby : no call to take heed of the matter, so that the murmur pleases 
her ; it's no matter to me ; and certainly no matter to the child, that 
can't make matter out of it." 

- What stupid animals these country folks are !" muttered the wait- 
ing-maid ; " little better than swine, in their brutish ignorance of what's 
what, and in their obstinate sticking to what they've once said." 



190 oniELiA ; 

" Let tliem that like to ferret out filth, find what they have a mind 
to, in my old songs;" said the nurse to herself; ; ' only don't let 'em gc 
And give their nasty notions to my innocent child ; who, if ever she 
should chance to catch up the words by-and-by, from hearing me repeat 
'em, would only do so. like a prattling starling, for the sake of the sound, 
and without a thought of any bad meaning." 

Before the little Ophelia could run any risk of learning either words 
or meaning of the foster-mother's songs, inasmuch as it was before she 
could speak, the good Botilda's office of wet nurse ceased ; she returned 
to her peasant-family, her native country-home ; while Ophelia's own 
mother, the lady Aoudra, gladly took the charge of her little girl upon 
herself. She had hitherto neglected to fulfil the most important ma- 
ternal duty, solely from the physical cause of disability. Not long, 
however, did she enjoy this new delight of cherishing and watching the 
infant growth of her child. Ophelia was yet a little toddling thing, 
when her father, the lord Polonius, received an appointment as ambassa- 
dor in Paris, and was compelled to quit the Danish court for an uncer- 
tain period. 

So distinguished an honour, as this official dignity conferred upon 
him by his sovereign, was a matter of high self-gratulation to the ambi- 
tious courtier; and he determined to fulfil his mission with such pomp, 
with such unsparing profusion of outlay, as should best prove how wor- 
thy he was of the office for which he had been selected. He resolved 
that as the representative of royalty, his travelling appointments should 
be princely in their richness, their magnitude ; and for the like reason, 
his household and retinue, when established in the French capital, should 
be of even regal magnificence. In order the better to carry out his 
views of making his embassy as complete a semblance of royalty as 
might be, he determined that his wife should accompany him, remarking 
that a court without a queen, an embassy without an embassadress, were 
shorn of half their splendour and influence. His lady, dreading the 
lengthened separation from her children which this would involve, made 
an attempt to dissuade him from the arrangement, begging to be left be- 
hind in Elsinore with her young son and daughter, until such time as 



THE JIOSE OF ELS1NORE. 191 

they should be old enough to travel with her ; when they could all three 
join hi in in Paris together. 

But Polonius gave several weighty reasons why this could not be 
done ; alleging that the first impression was the, most important ; that he 
was convinced greater effect was produced by the presence of a lady — 
that it attracted other ladies ; that the more ladies attracted and attached, 
the better, inasmuch as the influence of woman's wit and woman's beau- 
ty had ever been acknowledged to be some of the most potent agencies 
in a court atmosphere ; together with several other sage and worldly ob- 
servations in support of his views, and ending with an intimation that, 
in short, it was his will^she should go with him at first and at once. 
Without further opposition, therefore, to her husband's will, the lady 
Aoudra prepared to obey by making arrangements for the suitable pla- 
cing of her children during their parents' absence. For Laertes, the 
boy, there was the protection of his uncle ; a wealthy old bachelor, and 
retired general ; who found the seclusion and repose of his arm-chair to 
be the sole refuge for which his wounds and their consequent infirmity 
had left him fitted. For the little Ophelia, her mother determined she 
should be confined to the c$ re of her former nurse, Botilda. She resolved 
tj risk: t'.i? wiat of rei i3.n.3;it i.i t'13 peasant home, for the sake of 
its simple food, its pure air, its kindly hearty foster-care. She trusted 
to the child's extreme youth — scarce beyond babyhood — for security that 
she should not acquire coarse habits, or imbibe unseemly notions. She 
hoped herself to return to Denmark before the time when it was necessa- 
ry to begin the inculcation of principle, the inspiring of ideas, the forma- 
tion of heart and mind. Meantime she thought health of body, vigour 
of frame, activity of limb, the main things to be secured for her child ; 
and this she thought could best be done by sending the little girl to the 
cottage of Sigurd and his wife Botilda. She knew they had children. — ■ 
although they had lost the youngest, the one whose early death had pro- 
cured Ophelia the wet-nurse services of the peasant, — and she thought 
with them, her own child would be brought up in health and hardihood, 
in exercise and open-air pursuits, and in kindly affection, even if some- 
what roughly and unrefinedly nurtured. 



192 ophelia; 

The lady Aoudra determined to place her child herself in the arms 
of its foster-mother. She ordered her litter, and set forth on her short 
journey, consoling herself .with the thought that she should at least see 
the spot in which she was about to leave her youngest daiTmg : where 
she might picture her to herself hereafter, during the long tedious period 
of absence. She did her utmost to combat the sorrowful feelings, the 
half-defined fears that beset her as the thought of that absence pressed 
upon her; she strove to dwell upon none but cheerful thoughts and hopeful 
fancies for the future, that the present moment might remain unclouded 
in the remembrance of her little girl, who sat beside her, looking in her 
face, and asking her questions of the new places and strange objects 
among which they were passing. She exerted herself to entertain the 
child, that no suspicion of her own grief might interfere to mar the 
pleasure and enjoyment of this first journey, so full of delight and curi- 
osity, and interest to the little one. At length the excitement, the con- 
stant demand upon her attention, the many hours past in the open air 
which made its way through the curtain of the litter, caused the little 
Ophelia to fall into a profound sleep. Then the lady allowed herself to 
drop back among the cushions, and give way to her emotions at the 
thought of the parting that was so soon to come between her and her 
child. Weeping, and in silence, the poor mother travelled the remain- 
der of the way, — praying earnestly. 

All that she saw at the cottage of Botilda confirmed her in the pre- 
vious conviction she had felt, that its advantages would outweigh its dis- 
advantages. It was a clean wholesome place ; its inhabitants were 
homely but kindly ; and the lady Aoudra felt that her child would be 
healthfully and affectionately tended — the two great requisites at her 
age. She found, too. that the little Ophelia's chief companion would be 
Jutha, the only daughter of the peasant couple — a young girl of some 
fifteen or sixteen years of age, of the most winning appearance, gentle-man" 
nered, sweet-tempered, and extremely beautiful. This afforded peculiar 
comfort to the lady-mother, as she knew how attracted children are by 
beauty ; and how happy their existence is made by gentleness and even- 
temper, in those who have charge of them. To Jutha then, she espe- 



THE ROSE OF ELSEVORE. 193 

eially recommended the care and tendance of her babe ; knowing how 
superfluous it was to bespeak more of that which already so lavishly 
flowed in devoted affection towards it. on the part of the good nurse. 
Amd then the mother, assisted by these two. — who were in future to 
supply her place. — -laid the sleeping babe in the rude wooden cot. and 
took a weeping farewell of her treasure. 

- Let not the hot tears fall on the babe, my lady ;." whispered the 
foster-mother ; " they'll disturb her, an they drop upon her face ; a 
mother's tears are not to be felt without bale and smart, even by one so 
young. Besides, parting tears bring no good luck ; they're no blessed 
shower to sprinkle your babe with. Let her have a kiss and a smile, an 
ye can muster one, my lady, as a keepsake for the child, until ye come 
back to give her kisses and smiles the whole day long, as plenty as lips 
can give them." 

An earnest pressure of the nurse's arm, told hgw well the kindly 
intent of her words was understood by the lady. By a strong effort, she 
succeeded in mastering her grief sufficiently to bestow a better-omened 
caress upon her child. The last kiss she gave it, as it still lay in a deep 
sleep, was almost cheerful, for she cast her eye up hopefully, and com- 
mended her little one to heavenly guardianship. Over the face of the 
babe, as it slumbered, crept a soft answering smile : and then the mother, 
accepting the angelic token, turned silently away, and stepped into a 
litter, more serene at heart than she could have hoped. 

For some hours after her mother had left her. the unconscious Ophe- 
lia slumbered on. The journey, the passing through the air. caused her 
to sleep soundly ; and there she remained, perfectly still, drawing soft 
regular breathings, with one hand beneath the peachy cheek, the other 
lying plump, and dimpled, and white, on the coarse coverlet. The rough 
wooden cot in which she lay. had been the resting-place of all the peas- 
ant-babes born there in succession. It was rudely fashioned but strong 
and safe, raised away from the ground upon high legs, which prevented 
the hostile approach of any wandering cat or other more formidable an- 
imal. It was furnished with bedding, coarse and homely, but clean and 
sweet-scented from the open bleaching : and ; — by the care of Jutha, 



194 ophelia; 

whose pride it was to see it always kept neat and nice — a pretty object 
in the family sitting-room. As Sigurd and his two eldest sons. Harald 
and Ivar, came in from their daily labour, at eventide, they went and 
peeped at the little stranger who had become their inmate. Sigurd said 
some kind words to his wife Botilda. of his being glad she had the little 
lady-babe to take the place of the one she had lost ; and that it would 
do them both good to see the cot filled once more. The two tall-lads, 
who looked like friendly ogres, or good-humoured giants, looked at the 
sleeping child, as if she had been a young bird, or a half hidden spring- 
flower nestling beneath a hedge. 

" Wnat a bit of a thing she be ! she looks as easy to be blown away, 
easy to be looked through, as sweet and as blooming, as a handful of rose- 
leaves, don't she ?" quoth Harald. 

ki Ay. she do : " said Ivar. i; She scarce loooks like a baby, such as 
you or I once was. What a pretty creature 'tis ! : ' 

The family sat down to their evening meal ; while Botilda showed 
her husband the purse of money and the presents the lady Aoudra had 
given them to take charge of her child ; told him of the engagement she 
had made, to forward them each month a sum for its maintenance ; that 
the lady wished them to increase their own comforts at the same time : 
and that in consequence, she, Botilda, had provided an extra supper for 
them to make a sort of feast in celebration of her own little lady-babe's 
coming among them. 

Meantime the infant Ophelia continued to sleep on. But as one of 
the good-humoured giants happened to forget himself, and give a louder 
laugh than he had hitherto done, the sound disturbed her ; she turned, 
and opened her eyes, and lay awake. She was none of those fretful 
children, who, the very first thing they uniformly do upon waking up from 
sleep, is to roar : on the contrary, she lay silent and still for a moment 
or two. and then raising herself softly against the side of the cot, rub- 
bed her eyes, and looked over. It was a strange scene she beheld : quite 
different from anything that had ever met them before. Instead of the 
spacious apartment, lighted by silver sconces, and hung with rich tapes- 
tries ; there was a raftered low room, a rough deal table, round which 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 195 

sat some uncouth figures on wooden chairs, eating by the light of a single 
oil-fed iron lamp. There was an elderly man. with a weather-beaten face, 
and grizzly locks : there was an elderly woman, whose face seemed 
known to the child who was staring at them : there were two very tall young 
men with bushy beards, rough hair, and good-natured faces : there was a 
bov with large hairy hands, a fell of shock hair upon his head, shaggy 
eyebrows, from beneath which gleamed a restless pair of grey eyes, and 
a huge bare throat that swelled, and moved, and showed the big morsels 
which he was shoveling into his mouth, as they made their way a- 
long the gullet to the stomach. The staring baby's eyes after dwell- 
ing sometime with a kind of uncomfortable awe upon this object, saw. 
lastly, that there was another figure at the table. — that of a young girl, 
beautiful and pleasant to look upon. The little Ophelia was still silent- 
ly gazing upon all this : when the hairy hoy gave a grin — mutely writh- 
ing his face : and then he pointed stealthily towards the cot. saying in a 
low growl, singularly harsh and discordant, though not loud . — ; - See ; 
little court-lady's awake." 

u My baby awake, and I not notice it ! " exclaimed Botilda, about to 
hurry towards the cot. in fear that the child would cry. and be startled 
at finding itself among strangers." 

•• Let her be a bit !" said Sigurd, laying his hand on his wife's arm : 
"and let's see what she'll do : she don't seem a bit scared like, at all us 
new faces." 

On the contrary, the child seemed entertained : and continued to 
look from one to another, patting her hand on the end of the cot. and 
humming a little song to herself : they all watching her the while with 
quiet, amused glances. 

By and bye. she drew a long breath, looked round, and said : — 
'• Mamma ! " 

Botilda and Jutha both now went towards her : doing their best to 
distract her attention from the thought, which had at length evidently 
struck her. TVith the facile spirits of childhood, this was no difficult 
task. She was brought over to the table to take her first rustic meal of 
bread and milk, which she did with much relish. — despite the absence 



1 96 OPHELIA ; 

of the gold service which had hitherto administered her refection. — and 
with much apparent contentment, leaning against the familiar bosom oi 
her nurse, frolicking and making acquaintance with the smiling beauty 
of Jutha. and graciously allowing the burly peasant Sigurd to curl her 
miniature hand round his great big horny forefinger. In short, the lit- 
tle lady-babe seemed at once to take to her foster-family, and make her- 
self at home with them. 

After this inaugural meal, however, when Botilda had. as a matter of 
course, taken charge of her nursling, Jutha contrived to secure the ex- 
clusive care of the child from that time forth. She had it to sleep with 
her. in her own little bed. the wooden cot serving for a day-couch mere- 
ly. — she fed it. she washed and dressed it. she amused it. she danced and 
tossed it. she held it on her knee when she sat. she carried it about with 
her when she went out. She dedicated herself entirely to its comfort 
and happiness, and made it in return her own joy and delight. She 
would have been its servant, if such willing ministry as hers could be 
called servitude : she would have been its slave, if such voluntary bon- 
dage as hers could be slavery ; as it was. she was the little creature's 
fond devoted girl-mother ; she had that peculiar affection which young 
girls have for a baby. — the childish, fondling, protective feeling, min- 
gled with a sense of power, as towards a doll, or a plaything possession ; 
the tender, thoughtful solicitude, the instinct of motherly feeling, as to- 
wards a little being dependant on her for life and welfare. 

On the morning after Ophelia's arrival at the cottage, she was sit- 
ting on the young girl's knee, in that half drowsy state of quiet, which 
is apt to succeed a violent game of romps. Tired with laughter, panting 
with exertion, she lay back to enjoy complete rest and silence ; while 
her eyes fell dreamily upon a figure on the other side of the room. 
It was that of the hairy loutish boy. He was lying half crouching, 
half kneeling, in a recess in the wall opposite, killing flies. As the in- 
sects buzzed and flitted to and fro, he eyed them from beneath his shag- 
s:v brows, with snorting eagerness, and tongue out-lolling : ever and anon 
taking aim with his hairy paw. and at each successful dab that sent a 
crushed and mangled fly to swell the heap which already lay there, the 
lout gave a grin. Sometimes he would chop among the mound of dead. 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 197 

with a knife that lay beside him ; sometimes he would seize one of the 
living ones by the wing, or the leg, and hold it between finger and 
thumb, watching its buzzing struggles, and grinning at its futile flutter- 
ings ; then let it go again, to pounce upon, and deal it its death-blow. 
The child lay looking at him in a sort of bewitched inability to remove 
her eyes from an object that filled her with uneasy wonder ; while Jutha, 
accustomed to the uncouth cruelty of her idiot brother, Ulf, had not per- 
ceived that the child's attention was fixed upon him. Presently. Botil- 
da's voice sounded from an inner room, desiring Jutha to come and help 
her with some household matter that she had in hand. Jutha placed 
the little Ophelia softly on the floor, put some playthings near her, and 
bade her sit still for a few minutes till she came back. The child sat, 
with her eyes unmoved from the fly-killer. Presently he turned, and spied 
her. He gave one of his silent grins. 

'• Are you one of the Elle folk ?" he said. 

No answer. 

" Or the Trolls ? " asked he again. 

No answer. 

." You're little enough ; and pretty enough. But I remember, you re 
the little court-lady." He continued to stare down upon her, grinning ; 
as she kept her eyes fixed upon him. " Come to the bear !" he ex 
claimed presently, in his discordant tones ; u come here, and shake hands 
with •me." 

No answer, but a shake of the head ; as she eyed the huge paw held 
out to her. " Come to the bear, I tell ye !" growled he. ; ' I shan't eat 
ye. Only hug ye. Come to the bear!" 

" No !" — desperately ; with a more vehement shake of the head. 

"What if I threw this at ye, and knocked off your legs like ore of 
them ?" said he, pointing with his knife to the heap of dead and dying 
flies stripped of their legs and wings. 

Ophelia gave a startled scream. 

In ran Jutha and her mother. 

" Little court-lady's proud ; and won't shake hands with Ulf, the 
bear ;" he said, lolling out his tongue, and grinning. 

' ; What have you been about, brute ?" said Botilda. " Frightening 



198 OPHELIA ; 

my baby. I shouldn't wonder. Take care bow you ever do that, once 
for all, mind ; or I'll beat you. as long as I can stand over you." 

' : And that an't long, now ;" grinned be. " 1 get bigger, and beyond 
your strength ; you hurt your own hands, more than you do my shoul- 
ders, when you thump me now." 

"You limb !" said his mother, shaking her fist at him; " but mind 
my words. You dare not frighten my baby : and if ever you do. it'll 
be the worse for you. She's the great lord Polonius's child, sent here 
to be taken care of — not to be be harmed or frighted; and he'll punish 
ye. if I cant, should his child be hurt." 

" I didn't want to hurt her ; I wanted to hug her — and she wouldn't 
let me." 

- Don't touch her at all, Ulf dear, to hurt, or to hug her ;" said his 
sister Jutha. :; She don't know that our bear's hugs are harmless. She 
don't know you're called in sport, Ulf, the bear. Let her get used to 
you, before you try to make friends with her. She got used to me, be- 
fore she'd come to me from mother, you know, last night." 

" You always make me do what you will. Jutha ;" grunted Ulf. 
"But I don't mind pleasing you; you please me, and give the bear 
things he likes, sweet food — good eating." 

'• Sigurd's cottage was situated in a pleasant spot ; one of the most 
fertile in all the island. It overlooked a green valley, embosomed in 
swelling hills ; and towards the north-east it was screened by a thick 
and lofty forest of primaeval trees. The soil in the immediate neigh- 
bourhood of the cottage was favourable to vegetation ; but among the 
hills, it was rocky and sandy — more in keeping with the prevailing char- 
acter of Danish ground. The air was generally temperate, though moist, 
being subject to mists : — which, in the more inclement seasons, became 
dense fogs ; and in the winter there were fierce winds, with frequent 
snow, hail, and sleet. But during the summer and autumn months, the 
climate was far from ungenial ; and Jutha took care that her charge 
should then enjoy as much of the open air as possible. They would go 
forth at quite early morning, and with some food in Jutha's basket, 
would ramble abroad all day long. Sometimes, they made exploring ex. 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 199 

peditions among the hills: now stopping to sit among the craggy rocks : 
now loitering in some curious cavern or grotto, watching the plash inga 
and oozings of the water that made its way through crevice and fissure. 
down-dropping amid the moss and lichens, and long stalactites, and 
bright spars that behung the roof and sides. Sometimes they would 
wander in the green depths of the forest ; and sit on the moss-grown 
gnarled roots of some old oak or elm-tree, or beneath a spreading beech. 
or tall feathery ash. while the young girl-mother would bid the child 
mark the shape of the leaf, and branch, ana bark and bough, of rugged 
trunk and smooth bole, until she learned tc know tree from tree, and to 
amuse herself by distinguishing one kind from another. Jutha would 
point out. with rustic taste, the luxuriant masses of foliage that enriched 
the monarch oak : the noble strenth and amplitude of its sturdy body : 
the vigorous growth of its giant arms ; the strange grotesque forms into 
which its ramification spread, in sinuous and angular branches : the deep 
indentation of its leaves, the curious cup. and smooth fruit of its acorns; 
the mottled reel and white of its apples : the pearly berries of its para- 
site misletoe. She would show her the straight smooth-winded stem of 
the beech-tree, and how the pointed glossy leaves grew in palmated branch- 
es, and flat fanlike sprays, ever up-inclined, like huge sylvan hands rais- 
ed heavenward. She told her which was the stately elm. with its grace- 
ful height, and amplitude of leaf and bough. She taught her to know 
the towering ash. with its light waving plumes of green: the birch, with 
its pensile sweeps of slender twigs behung with small round leaves: — 
the alder and elder, with their close dwarf clusters : — the firs and pines 
with their upright stems, brown-coned and sober in the sullen season, 
emerald-tufted and cheerful in spring-time: — the sallow, with its downy 
catkins : — the willow, with its sad-drooping tresses, mirrored in the stream. 
She would take her to bowery thickets in the wood, where the pansy and 
the columbine grew wild : and they would peep among the grass, fon 
shy lurking violets, and pile up their basket with bright daisies, and 
bring home roots of rosemary, fennel and rue. for the herb-corner of their 
garden. Sometimes. Jutha would lead the little one as far as the sea- 
shore: where they would pick up shells, as they strayed along the sm 



200 



OPHELIA 



sand ; and when the billows came tumbling in, crested with foam, roll- 
ing over one another in huge monstrous frolic — like lion whelps at play 
— and when the sea-breeze blew freshly, and the spray flew over the 
rocks, bounding, and tossing, and breaking against them, flinging itself 
wildly apart, and abroad, in silver showers, as it caught the gleaming sun- 
light, the young girl would tell the child how these vast waters of the sea, 
that now looked so bright and gay, grew dark, and threatening, and angry, 
when the stormy winds of the north lashed them into fury. She told 
her of the adventurous men who put forth in search of the fish that 
abounded on those shores ; she told her how they braved the dangers of 
shoals, sunken rocks, banks of quicksand, and whirlpools, to gain a bare 
livelihood ; and how, sometimes, their boats were sucked in, and buried 
beneath the waves that now looked so buoyant and sparkling, — then mur- 
ky, tumultuous, menacing ; fraught with danger and doom. 

For a few moments, the little Ophelia would stand with her eyes 
fixed upon the wide expanse of sea, surging, and heaving, and swelling 
before her ; while a feeling of awe would creep over her, at the thought 
of a watery death — of the whelming billows, of the down-sinking struggle, 
of the stifled breath, of the stopped sight and hearing — of the heart- 
despair of those poor drowning souls, of whom she heard tell — the brave 
fishermen ; then, with the true happy ease of childish spirits, incapable 
of long dwelling upon a mournful idea, she would turn once more to her 
shell collection; admiring their pretty colours, and curious shapes, and 
putting some of the larger ones to her ear, that she might listen to the 
sea roaring within them — as it were, distant, yet close beside her. These 
rambles abroad with Jutha were the pleasantest periods of the little 
Ophelia's sojourn among her foster family. When she was at the cot- 
tage itself, she was dull, uncomfortable, uneasy, with a vague feeling of 
disquietude and timidity, almost amounting to a sense of harm and 
danger. She felt herself strange and apart, among so many people 
nowise suited to her. After the first interest and curiosity excited by 
the vision of the little lady among them, Sigurd and his two elder sons, 
Harold and Ivar, took little notice of her, beyond a passing nod, or a 
good-humoured grin, when they were at home. — which was not often, or 
for long. They rose before it was well-nigh light, and were out and off 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 201 

to work by day-break : taking with them the means for their noon-tide 
meal, and returning to the cottage only in time for the supper, which 
immediately preceded their retiring to rest. 

Botilda was ever occupied with household drudgery, in which she 
frequently enlisted the services of Jutha ; so that neither from the nurse 
or her daughter, could the child obtain much companionship, when within 
the house. She was thus thrown entirely upon her own resources ; and 
these were few or none for procuring entertainment, never having learned 
to play, or to amuse herself, from any child of her own age. Children, 
from each other, learn the sports, as well as gain the ideas, proper to 
their time of life : and it is seldom that a solitary little one either thinks, 
acts, or amuses itself like those who have been brought up in the society 
of others. She would, for the most part, when at the cottage, sit still, 
watching Ulf, the idiot boy, with a sort of helpless, fascinated, involun- 
tary attention. She had never been prevailed upon by his attempted 
advances towards an intimacy between them, any more than on the first 
morning, when she had observed his hideous sport, and he had sought to 
lure her towards him to be hugged ; but although she would never go 
close to him, or suffer him to approach her, yet she seemed to derive a 
sort of desperate pleasure, and uncomfortable gratification, a strange, 
half-excited, half-dreading enjoyment in hovering about his vicinity, 
watching fearfully and wonderingly his uncouth ways. She looked trem- 
blingly loath, at the very time she gazed upon him ; shrinking and averse, 
while she hung about near his haunts : but it seemed as if she could not 
refrain from noting what possessed such mingled attraction and repulsion 
for her. It was with a kind of dismayed interest, that she would stand 
aloof, silently ; or sit, perfectly still and motionless, to watch, with fixed 
eyes, and suspended breath, the ugly odious Ulf. Once, he was squat- 
ting near the hearth, with a huge foot clasped in each of his large hairy 
hands, his chin resting between his knees, his leering blood-shot eyes 
staring greedily towards a string of small birds, which were dangling to 
roast, by the wood embers. 

" Have some?" said he abruptly, turning to the child, as he became 
aware of her presence ; <; they'll soon be done." 

The little Ophelia shook her head. 



202 ophelia ; 

" But they're nice, I can tell ye. They're nice to sing — but they're 
nicer to eat." And he smacked his great broad lips, that were drawn 
wide from ear to ear. 
Ophelia shuddered. 

" Hark, how they frizzle !" said he ; and his large flapping ears moved 
and shifted as he spoke. " Sniff, how savory they smell !" And the 
black bristly nostrils gaped and expanded, while the blood rushed into 
his face, as was its wont, when he felt pleasure ; and all the lines of his 
countenance were contorted, writhing to and fro, as he gave his peculiar 
silent grin. 

Presently, he clutched the roast in his fist, and exclaiming:- — "they're 
done ! they're done !" held it out towards the little girl, repeating, 
" Have some ? you'd better !" while his eyes gloated beneath his shaggy 
brows, at her, and at the viands. 

" Isn't it too hot. for you to hold ?" asked the little Ophelia, as if she 
couldn't help putting the question — from wonder to see him grasp the 
burning food. 

" Ha, ha ! the bear's paw is too tough to be scalded ; and I like my 
victuals hot ;" said Ulf, thrusting one of the birds into his mouth, whole^ 
crunching it through, bones and all, and then bolting it, at one gulp. 

As the child listened to the noise he made, his fangs champing into 
the bones and mangled flesh, and looked at the savage greed with which 
he crammed, she thought he seemed some wild beast, ravening his prey. 
There was something cruel, and malicious in this idiot-boy's mode of 
doing even simpler things than eating singing-birds, or killing flies, 
which gave an air of horrible meaning, in the little girl's eyes, to his acts. 
She saw him once tearing up a rose ; and it seemed a tyranny and a bar- 
barity, as if inflicted on a sentient creature. Leaf after leaf fell, as if 
they were rent limbs. When he held up the bare stalk, the stripped 
calyx and yellow centre looked like a skeleton ; and he twitched out the 
golden stamens, as though they were eyelashes, or teeth. He appeared 
to take a ferocious delight in ripping up and destroying flowers ; and would 
pluck off the winged petals from sweet peas, as if he loved to deprive 
them of their seeming power of fairy flight. The vindictive satisfaction 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 203 

with which lie exercised this power upon things of beauty and fragility } 
and the air of triumj h with which he gloated over his work of ravage as 
he leered at her after each feat of the kind, made the little girl always 
feel somehow as if she were herself the bird, or the fly, or the rose, or 
whatsoever other object might chance to be the victim of Ulf's destruc- 
tive propensity. And yet, he expresses liking for her, not enmity ; but 
it seems to her as if his liking were destruction. More than ever she 
shrinks from his approaches ; yet still she cannot resist watching him. 
Dread and disgust she feels ; but withal a strange irresistible excitement, 
which impels her to look upon that she fears and loathes. 

However, this is only when bad weather keeps her in-doors. When 
the sky is clear, and neither snow falls, nor winds howl, nor mists hover, 
nor rain-showers threaten, the little Ophelia coaxes Jutha abroad ; and 
again they sally forth together for a long ramble through forest, field, or 
Valley ; among the rocks, or along the sea-shore. 

And .then the young girl amuses the child with telling her quaint 
tales, and singing her old ballads, such as she has heard from her mother. 
There is one strange legend of a princess who was shut up by the king 
her father in a high strong tower, to be safe from the bold seeking of an 
adventurous young knight who loved her well, but who had no other in- 
heritance than his good sword and his brave spirit, to entitle him to 
match with one of so high degree. Nowise daunted by the difficulty of 
obtaining his mistress, the knight lover set forth for the strong tower 
resolved to try if fortune and his own valor might not avail to rescue her 
thence. His road lay through a wild district where the storm-gods have 
their dwelling. He encountered successively Snorro, the divinity who 
holds the snow, hail, and sleet, at his command ; Frore, he who scatters 
the crisp and sparkling rime upon the branches of trees, hangs frost- 
diamonds upon the leaves and weeds, and upon every blade of grass, and 
bedrops the eaves of houses, and roofs of cottages, and mouths of caverns, 
with long, slender, down-pending icicles ; Drondror, he who bids the 
cataracts take their rushing leaps over crag and fell, and the mountain 
torrents their roaring, tumultuous course through rift and gully, sweep- 
ing all before them ; and lastly he met Durnbrunderod, the mighty ruler 



204 ophelia ; 

of the thunder, the dread wielder of the destroying bolts, the speeder of 
the fatal lightning-stroke. But not all the terrors of the storm-gods — 
not even the flashing glancej and fire-darting nostrils of the thunder- 
ruler, who rolled angrily and threateningly by, in his war-chariot, cast- 
ing furious glances, and hurling scoffing words at the daring mortal who 
ventured thither, could cause the brave heart of the knight to blench 
one jot in its stout courage and determination. He restored the fierce 
glance, and gave back defiant words in reply to the storm-gods' con- 
temptuous ones ; saying that all the terrors of earth, air, fire, water, of 
the sky above, and of the dark regions beneath, would vainly strive to 
conquer his resolution, or to extinguish his love. That so long as life 
and limb were uninjured, his spirit would remain unvanquished, persist- 
ing still in its purpose to win his mistress, or die in the attempt. The 
storm-gods burst into a loud peal of mirth, that shook the surrounding 
hills. They could not but laugh to hear the puny mortal declare his 
small mighty will in opposition to theirs. The hearty laugh exploded 
with a crash, that sent a thousand echoes roaring through upland and 
valley, while Dumbrunderod swore that the human pigmy was a fine 
fellow of his inches, and showed a spirit becoming a better race ; that, 
for his part, he knew how to allow for these fiery natures, hasty in their 
anger, prompt in their deeds, indomitable in their will, inevitable in 
their undertakings. He vowed that so far from resenting the knight's 
defiance of his and his brother storm-gods' power, that he applauded his 
ardor of courage and of love, and that it deserved the assistance it should 
receive. At first the knight thought this promise of friendly aid and 
protection was strangely evinced, for there suddenly arose a tempest of 
such violence that it seemed threatening to carry all before it to de- 
struction, himself included. A hurricane of wind tore up trees by their 
roots, and scattered them far and wide ; the torrents and cataracts pelted 
down the hills, as if they would have inundated the whole face of the 
plain ; the heavens poured forth a deluge of snow, rain, sleet, and hail, 
all at once, while incessant claps of thunder rent the air, and sheets of 
lightning glared fearful illumination upon all this scene of gale and tem- 
pest. But when, at length, the knight succeeded in forcing his way 
through the storm-blast, he found that it had done its masters' work of 



THE ROSE OF ELSIXORE. 205 

beneficent help right well . for upon reaching the strong high tower, he 
saw it levelled to the ground by a friendly thunder-bolt : which had 
struck it, leaving his mistress unharmed, who stepped forth from the 
ruins, flung herself into his arms, and fled with him that instant to a far 
distant country, where they lived happily thenceforth, safe from royal 
tyranny. 

There was another story of Jutha's, which told of a wicked steward ; 
who. — left in his master's castle, with charge to watch and guard from 
harm the lord's only child, a passing fair daughter, — proved false to his 
function of protector, stole the lady away from her home, and would 
fain have forced her into. a marriage with his own unworthy self. But 
the unhapp} r maiden, resolved to die rather than suffer the degradation 
of such a union, flung herself from the window of the high chamber in 
which the false steward had confined her : and so. untimely, perished. 
Then the lord, her father, returning home to his castle, and hearing how 
it had been despoiled by the miscreant in whom he confided, ceased not 
until he had discovered his wronger, whom he caused to be tried for his 
heinous offences, and sentenced to death. In consideration of his 
treacherous breach of trust, and the death his deed had caused, the false 
steward was broken on a wheel, and died in cruel tortures. 

One fine noon-day. when the heat of the sun bad compelled Jutha 
and the little girl to seek the shade of the forest depths. Ophelia inter- 
rupted the story then telling, by exclaiming suddenly : — " Look Jutha ! 
See there !" 

Jutha looked in the direction of the child's pointing finger, and saw 
to her surprise, a milk-white horse, saddled and bridled, coming leisurely 
along beneath the trees, cropping the grass, and looking as if he had 
strayed from his fastenings. " The beautiful creature !" exclaimed Ju- 
tha, rising from the seat Ophelia and she occupied, on the spreading 
root of a tree ; " What costly housings it has ! It looks like a fairy 
horse, — the steed of some of those gallant princes in the stories ! And 
it is gentle, too : see how it lets me lay my hand upon its bridle, and 
pat its neck. It is well trained, and belongs to some noble master, 
doubtless. But who can he be? And where?" 

The young girl held the rein, and looked about her in perplexity ; 



206 ophelia ; 

while the white horse tossed its arching neck, nearly jerking the curb 
from her hand, pawed the ground, and neighed shrill and loud. 

" Look Jutha !" once more exclaimed the child. ' ; There among the 
trees — on that mossy slope — do you see ?" 

" He is sleeping !" said Jutha, in hushed answer ; " and soundly, 
too ; not even the neighing of his good horse can disturb him." 

The girl and the child crept a little nearer to the figure they saw 
lying there. It was that of a man, in a rich hunting-dress. His plumed 
hat had been placed so as to shade his eyes during sleep ; but it had 
fallen partly aside, and showed a face finely shaped, with features marked 
and handsome. One hand supported his head ; but the other, ungloved, 
was white, bore more than one jewelled ring, and lay carelessly, near the 
half-open bosom of his vest, as if it had slipped thence in slumber. 

' : A fit owner for such a gallant beast !" murmured Jutha, as she 
turned to pat once again the neck of the steed ; for the docile creature 
had suffered the young girl to retain his rein, and to draw him after her 
to the spot where his master lay. ' : Sure, a prince — no less ; such a 
prince as they tell of in the wondrous tales I have heard. How passing 
beautiful he is ! What can he be % Where can behave come from? 
From fairy-land — or from the court, surely ;" added she, as she looked 
again upon th_ handsome stranger. 

" Are there such princes at the court ?" whispered Ophelia. " I 
came from the court, they say ; but I remember none such princes there. 
I remember no one but my own papa, — my dear mother, — my brother 
Laertes — and those but faintly." 

" You were little more than a baby, when you left them to come 
hither. It can hardly be, that you should remember them ; said Jutha, 

" But I do ; though only dimly — as if they were a long way off in 
the distance. And so they are ;" added the little Ophelia, musingly. 
" They are across the wide, wide sea : far away from me — but perhaps 
one day I shall see my own mamma again — I remember how she looked, 
well, when she leaned her face close to mine, as we sat together, journey- 
ing here ; and how sweet her voice sounded, and how soft her arm and 
her side felt, as she hugged me close round, against her. I wish I could 



THE ROSE OP ELSINORE. 207 

have her to ling me close again — I wisli she would come. I want to see 
licr ! I want my own mamma !" And the child looked and spoke plain 
tively, — impatiently. 

" Hush, dear child !" said Jutha, soothingly ; " Look at this brave 
stranger. See how bright and handsome his clothing. Look what a 
goodly, beauteous face he hath ! He is as glorious to behold, as the 
king's son, who had a fairy for his godmother !" 

Whether it was the plaintive tone of the child, or the animated one 
of her companion, which penetrated the drowsed senses of the sleeper ; 
they were, together, sufficient to awaken him. He opened his eyes, and 
beheld the two young -girls standing there, opposite to him, with his 
courser between them, the bridle-rein in the elder's hand. 

" I have brought you your horse, sir ;" said she, dropping her simple 
curtsey. ' : He was straying." 

" And a fairer damsel to bring errant-knight his palfrey could not 
be found in all the realm of enchantment ;" said the stranger, springing 
to his feet, and receiving the bridle from her; " surely I have wandered 
upon charmed ground, and you are one of its denizens." 

" A plain country-maiden, none other, sir ; and this her mother's 
nurse-charge ;" said Jutha, curtseying once again, and presenting the 
little Ophelia. 

" Still a charmer ; — an earthly charmer, if you will — yet no less be- 
witching ; said the handsome stranger. " Pr'ythee, tell me thy name, 
pretty one, and I will tell thee mine. It is Eric." 

" And mine is Jutha, sir, at your service." 

" Nay, an thou volunteer'st to serve me — to do my bidding, pretty 
Jutha, thou must call me by my name, as I call thee by thine. So, if 
thou wouldst pleasure me, thou wilt no more say ; sir/" 

"I would please you, indeed, sir, — Eric, — an I knew how." 

" It pleasures me, believe me, to hear mine own name spoken with 
an artless tongue, and with a blushing innocence of face like that I look 
upon. Truly, thou seem'st an opening rose, Jutha, and yonder quiet 
little thing a close-furled bud, that promises to be just such another 
fiower of beauty as thyself, when she shall have reached thine age of 



208 ophelia ; 

bloom. In good faith, I may thank my lady Fortune, who brought me 
wearied from the chase to cast myself down in an enchanted wood, that 
I might dream a waking dream such as this." 

" You were hunting, then, sir Eric ?'■ said Jutha : when, as she spoke, 
a mounted horseman rode up, and addressing the stranger in a tone of 
respect that showed them to be servant and master, announced that the 
chase was concluded ; adding that his majesty had noticed the lord 
Erie's absence, and had desired some one to search the wood, and col- 
lect stragglers from the hunting-train, as the royal party was now re- 
turning. 

'•' 'Tis well, Trasco ; ride thou on ; I will speedily overtake thee, and 
attend his majesty," said lord Eric. Then vaulting into the saddle, he 
raised his hat, kissed his hand, and saying " I must obey the king's com- 
mand now, but I shall find a time to see more of my wood-nymphs," 
gave the spur to his horse, and was gone. 

There was an end of the story-telling for that day. Jutha could talk 
of nothing else during the rest of the ramble, but of the noble stranger, 
of his handsome face and figure, of his gallant bearing, of his milk- 
white steed, of his unexpected appearance, and of his speedy departure. 
Perhaps it was because she had so thoroughly exhausted the subject, in 
thus discussing it with her young companion ; or perhaps it was because 
they found on their arrival the thoughts of all at home engaged with 
other matters. — Botilda being busy scolding Ulf, and preparing the 
evening meal, — and the rest bent solely upon having the supper ready as 
soon as possible ; but certain it is, that the encounter in the wood was 
never mentioned at the cottage by either Jutha or Ophelia. The young 
girl seemed satisfied with the interest it awakened in herself; and the 
child was of a quiet, retiring nature, which seldom induced her to com- 
municate much with those around her. She was habitually silent ; ob- 
servant, rather than given to make remarks in words ; contented to 
look on, to listen, to notice what was passing, and to let others speak and 
act, while she held her peace. Her nurse, Botilda, had long left her 
wholly to the care of Jutha. The good woman saw that the young girl 
and the child sufficed in companionship to each other ; while she herself 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 209 

had ample employment in the care of her idiot son. Ulf. whose gor- 
mandizing propensities, and mischievous pranks, required her utmost 
vigilance. 

At one time he was found in the dairy, scooping the cream off the pans 
with the palms of his hands: holding some out in his great hairy paw 
to the little Ophelia, who stood there as usual, half quakingly. half won- 
deringly.— then supping it up himself, lest it should trickle and waste 
before she would advance. His mother cuffs him soundly, nay. gets a 
stick, and belabours him as long as she has breath : but the lout only 
pretends to blubber, ' : Hav'nt ye done yet. mother?'' while by his sly 
grin, he shows that her woman's arm fails to inflict any very severe 
chastisement. 

•- Cub that thou art ! thou shalt feel the weight of thy father's cudgel, 
an I catch thee at any more of thy pilfering tricks !" 

At another time, he was discovered in the store room, stealing the 
honey-comb that had just been collected from the bee-hives. Ophelia 
finds him there, lurking in a corner sucking his paws, with greedy joy 
gleaming in his eyes. ''• They call me Ulf the bear. Ha. ha ! The 
bear's fond of honey !" he said, with a grin, as he swilled and licked 
the handfulls of streaming comb. 

" Taste ! It's luscious-nice ! Taste some of the bear's honey." And. 
with his usual uncouth wish for her to share, he held some towards the 
child. . 

She shrank back. ' : It isn't yours. Best not touch it." 

'-'- Hush ! Mother'll hear." 

But his mother had already heard. She fetched Sigurd, who hap 
pened that day to be at work upon something that wanted doing at the 
cottage. And in a few minutes more, Ophelia stood scared and trem* 
bling at the terrible sounds that reached her ear, of the father's blows, 
of Ulf's cries, more like the howls of a wild beast, than anything 
human. 

Among these rough cottage people, more and more did the child 
feel herself alone and apart. Her shyness and sparing speech grew 
npon her. She was not unhappy ; but she became grave.— strangely 



210 ophelia; 

quiet and reserved for a little creature of her years, and so confirmed in 
her habit of silence, that she might almost have passed for dumb. She 
might be said to feel her uncongenial position without understanding it ; 
she did not comprehend what made her serious, but she was rarely dis- 
posed to cheerfulness ; she did not know why she was disinclined to 
talk, but she seldom met with any inducement to open her lips, and in- 
sensibly she kept them closed. With her sweet, earnest eyes, her placid 
though unsmiling countenance, and her still demeanor, she had a look 
of reflection, — of pensiveness, that better becomes womanhood grown, 
than childhood. Childhood should be free from heed ; light-hearted, 
undreading ; encouraged in its frankness, its confidence, its every hope- 
ful, eager, thought and word. Still, however, she had one resource — • 
her one companion, with whom she could assimilate, and feel at ease. 
With Jutha, rambling abroad, she was never dull, never sad ; with her, 
her heart knew no heaviness, no misgiving, no loneliness ; with her, her 
spirits rose to gladness, and she was, for the time, unreservedly happy. 
She used to spring forth into the open air like a young bird newly fran- 
chised, escaped from restraint* and soaring into its native element of 
buoyancy and freedom. With her hand in Jutha's, she would bound 
along, eager to take her fill of liberty, body and mind. Her spirit, no 
less than her limbs, seemed to revel in this season of unrestriction. For 
she then knew the joy that knows not how it is joyful ; she felt the glee 
that asks not why it is glee, — the joy and the glee of that age which 
should know no shadow of care. 

For some reason best known to herself, Jutha now invariably took the 
way towards the wood. Their former walks among the rocks, or along 
the sea-shore, were all abandoned, on some pretext or other,' in favor of 
the path which led through the forest; and the little Ophelia, loving the 
mysterious grandeur of its high-arching trees, was well pleased it should 
be their constant resort. On one of the first mornings they returned 
there, they had strolled far into its woody recesses, Jutha, as usual, en- 
tertaining her young companion with tales and marvels ; but her tone 
was hurried, her attention seemed elsewhere ; and her look, expectant 
at first, grew every moment more thoughtful and vexed. 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 211 

Suddenly, it brightened : and Ophelia, following the direction of her 
eyes, saw, coming towards them, the figure of lord Eric, on his milk- 
white horse. He threw himself from the saddle the moment he descried 
them, and eagerly approached. He seemed overjoyed to meet his 
nymphs of the wood, and sauntered long by their side, leading his 
horse by the bridle, talking and laughing animatedly. He shared their 
grassy seat, when they stopped to rest from the noontide heat; he 
shared the contents of their basket, when they produced their noontide 
meal, declaring he had never tasted daintier fare ; he gave himself up to 
the spirit of the forest ramble, as though he could wish no pleasanter 
enjoyment. Morning, after morning, he returned to make one in the 
wood-party : and never had the hours thus spent, seemed to fly by so 
lightly. Certainly, Jutha found it so ; for the shadows of evening- 
would steal upon them, with warning to return home, ere she could well 
believe it to be afternoon. The little Ophelia was less charmed with 
this addition to their society. She cared not that the stranger should 
come ;. she had always found sufficient delight in listening to Jutha, in 
walking and wandering with her ; and though this gentleman was a 
very sprightly companion, and talked gaily and good-humorecily. yet as 
his conversation was chiefly addressed to Jutha, and was often carried 
on in a voice that scarce reached beyond her ear, it soon became produc- 
tive of little entertainment to the child. Gradually, it grew to be ex- 
clusively confined to the two others, and the little girl was left to enter- 
tain herself, as she best might, with her own thoughts, or her own 
resources. She by degrees perceived that they were too much occupied 
with each other to be able to give much attention to her. She had hith- 
erto been accustomed to have every question answered, every enquiry 
satisfied; her friend Jutha had till now been always ready to furnish 
her with replies, and even to supply her with fresh store of amusement 
from her own talk ; it was otherwise, since this stranger had intruded 
upon their pleasant wood rambles. Jutha had now no look, no word but 
for him. But then she herself seemed so contented, that her child-friend 
?ould not altogether find in her heart to regret what made Jutha so evi- 
dently, so radiantly happy. She had never seen her look so full of joy, 



2 1 2 OPHELIA ; 

so full of spirit. Her eye sparkled, her color rose, her voice had exul- 
tation in its tone, as she took her way, with Ophelia, to these rambles 
in the wood — where they were sure to be joined by their new ac- 
quaintance. 

Once, on meeting him, the child saw his face assume a vexed look, as 
it rested upon her. He turned to Jutha, and pointing to a nosegay she 
wore in her boddice, he said, " Why bring flowers % I can gather you 
some fresh, here. Leave them at home, I beseech you, another time ; 
especially the rosebuds." 

He said the last words with emphasis, though he dropped his voice as 
he uttered them. But Jutha answered simply, as she drew the flowers 
from her bosom, " I brought them for you ; I thought you would like 
some of our garden-blossoms. They are but wild-flowers that grow here 
in the wood." 

He took them from her offered hand. " I love wild-flowers, — wood- 
flowers, best of all. Yet I thank thee, that thou thought'st of Eric in 
gathering these," said he, in his low-breathed tones. " Still, canst thou 
not still farther pleasure him, by omitting to bring with thee the green, 
unopened bud ? Thou know'st, the blowing rose, with its rich beauty 
of colour and fragrance, is the one he could look upon, never tiring, to 
the exclusion of every flower else." 

He glanced for an instant at Ophelia, as he pronounced one part of 
this speech, with a look, which she had before noted in his face ; and 
which had told her plainly enough that he not only ceased to include her 
in the conversation he addressed to his nymphs of the wood, but that 
he would be heartily glad to have her out of hearing, nay, to be rid of 
her presence altogether. 

The child thought to herself, — " He wishes me away ; but till I see 
that Jutha does, also, I shall not go. I wish he were away ; Jutha and 
I were very happy together, till he came ; I know what he means, about 
the rosebud ; but, till I find Jutha wants me out of hearing, I shan't 
stir." 

So far from Jutha wishing her to leave them, Ophelia could hear 
that she w^ resisting lord Eric's urgently repeated request that she 



THE ROSE OF ELSIXORE. 213 

would " send the garden rosebud to gather wild ones." with such senten- 
ces as. •• I dare not. indeed, my lord ; my mother gives her to my care ; 
T must not let her stray out of sight," 

He seemed still to plead against these objections; to over-rule them 
by asking what harm could come to her charge, in this quiet, solitary 
place ; adding. " Send her from us : I cannot speak to you as openly as 
I would, sweet Jutha. with that child listening to every word I utter. 
I want to speak to you fully — entirely." 

;; What can you have to say to me. my lord, that she may not hear? 

You can have naught to tell me. that" Jutha's voice trembled, and 

a bright color stole into her face. Then in a voice that strove for more 
firmness, but which still hesitated, she went on : " Were I to send her 
away, she would be sure to come back in fewer moments than your lord- 
ship thinks ; she does not like to be from me long." 

•• For however few moments. — for however short a space ; I would 
have you to myself, were it but for one instant. Do not refuse me, 
Jutha." 

The young girl seemed' still to hesitate : and the child could hear 
him mutter some reproach about " want of confidence, and not trusting 
him :" which seemed to have more effect in moving Jutha than anything 
he had yet said. She stopped, hung her head, and faltered something 
-in reply. Lord Eric led her to a seat on the turf beneath a goodly 
beecli-tree : then turning to Ophelia, he said, in his most persuasive 
tone of gaiety and good-humor, as he unfastened the knot of a bright 
silken scarf, which hung across his shoulder, " Here, take this, my 
little maid : I give it thee for a sash, an thou wilt go gather me all 
the .gay crow-flowers, king-cups, and daffydowndillies thou canst find 
in the forest, to make a chaplet for this queen of the woods. — thy 
fair friend Jutha." 

" I don't want the sash :" said the little Ophelia, drawing back, as he 
attempted to put it round her. ' ; Nor do you want the flowers. You 
want me to go away, — out of hearing, while you tell Jutha some secret 
you have for her. 1 do not care to do what you wish, because you tried 
to make me believe the pretence of the flowers and the sash, instead of 



214 ophelia; 

asking me at once to leave you. But I do care to please Jutha ; and if 
she tells me she wishes to listen to your secret without my hearing, I 
will go away at once." 

Jutha said nothing; but there was the bright color in her cheek, 
which Ophelia could see, though the young girl still hung her bead. 

" Jutha is curious to learn the secret you have to tell her : I can see 
she is !" said the child, peeping under her friend's drooping face. '"I'll 
go then ; and I'll stay away a long while, that you may have your talk 
out freely." 

The young girl made a faint attempt to detain her; but it was un- 
perceived by Ophelia, who walked straightway among the trees, bent 
upon relieving them of her presence. Once out of sight and hearing of 
her late companions, the child strolled on more leisurely ; now pulling 
some stray twig or blossom that caught her eye as she rambled along ; 
now stopping to peer into some briery tangle of close underwood, some 
leafy brake or thicket, where she fancied she would spy a bird's nest . 
now halting to watch some scrambling squirrel, that would dart up the 
barky trunk of a high tree, till he reached the topmost bough, whence 
he would slyly peep down at her in triumphant security. And still as 
she wandered on, trying to amuse her thoughts thus, they would ever and 
anon recur to the question of what could be the secret the gentleman had 
to tell Jutha. " Yet why should I ponder farther upon it 1 It is clear, 
they did not wish I should know it, or they would not have sent me out 
of the way while it was telling. If I endeavor to find it out by guessing, 
it is almost as bad as trying to do so by listening. I won't guess any 
more. I won't even think about it. I'll see if I can find the beautiful 
white horse ; and amuse myself by feeding him." 

And many times after this, Ophelia was glad to find in the noble 
horse a source of entertainment during her solitary rambles. For her 
walks in the forest were all solitary now. Whatever might be the secret 
lord Eric had to tell, it was evidently not to be told in one conversation ; 
for, time after time, he made pretexts to send Ophelia away, while he 
and Jutha talked alone ; and the child, finding that her friend no longer 
sought to detain her by her side, left them together undisturbed. Though 
she herself could not feel so happy, separated thus frequently from her 



THE HOSE OF ELSINORE. 215 

kind girl-companion, with whom she had formerly spent such pleasant 
hours, yet. so long as Jutha seemed the happier by the arrangement, 
Ophelia could fancy that it contented herself. 

Bat after a time, Jutha's look of joy faded ; her spirits, that at first 
seemed almost too exuberant, — as if they must needs express the secret 
gladness she hoarded at heart, in bright looks, and a mirthful tone of 
voice that finding speech too sober, would often break forth into bursts of 
song, — varied frequently ; the air of inward ecstacy, and conscious rap- 
ture involuntarily betraying itself in a thousand vivacious gestures, was 
exchanged for an appearance of anxiety and uneasiness. There were 
moments when her joyful looks rekindled ; her exuberance of gaiety re- 
turned ; bat it was fitfully : her spirits fluctuated ; she was alternately 
at height of glee, or lost in thought. She would still, in her cheerful 
moments, break out into snatches of the song which was her favorite at 
this time: — '-For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy; ; ' singing with an eager 
look, and exulting expression of voice ; but there was solicitude mingled 
with the eagerness ; there was forced mirth in the tone of exultation. 
These periods of cheerfulness grew rarer, and less lasting. They were 
more often replaced by fits of thoughtfulness, and brooding anxiety. The 
sparkling, bright up-look, gave way to a downcast expression ; or when 
the eye was raised, it was with a beseeching appeal in its tearful sadness. 

The altered manner of the young girl escaped the notice of the cot- 
tage inmates ; but the child observed the change in her friend, and sor- 
rowed wonderingly. Once, returning to the bank where she had left 
Jutha seated in one of her saddest moods, Ophelia found her restored to 
sudden gaiety. Lord Eric had arrived, while the child was away, and 
was talking cheeringly and encouragingly to his companion, while one of 
his arms was thrown about her, holding her close to him. 

Jutha withdrew from the clasping arm, as the child approached, look- 
ing bashful and embarrassed ; but at the same time so happy, and so 
much her bright, former self, that Ophelia in her innocent affection for 
her friend, could not help hoping that their forest acquaintance might 
always come and console Jutha, with his kindness of word and manner, 
when she should be ,out of spirits. 

But time goes on ; and the young girl's dejection increases. Ophelia 



216 ophelia; 

finds her one evening, sitting by the rivulet, wringing her hands, and 
sobbing. The child soothes her fondly ; asking what grieves her. 

Jutha attempts to deny that she has been weeping ; but Ophelia re- 
plies : — " You bathe your eyes in the water of the stream, that I may 
not see the tears, but I know that you have been crying. Tell me what 
makes you cry, Jutha ?" 

Jutha only shook her head, trying to stifle a sob that would be 
heard. 

" If you care not to tell your grief to such a little thing as I am, who 
can comfort you with no help, or council, why not tell your mother what 
grieves you? I often wish I could tell my own mamma what I think 
and feel. Tell our good mother, if any thing grieves you, Jutha." 

" But nothing grieves me — I can't tell her ;" faltered the young girl. 

'' Then tell our friend of the wood — your friend — lord Eric ; he 
seems kind, and fond of you, Jutha." 

' : So long as he is fond of me — so long as he is my friend — nothing 
can grieve me ;" said Jutha. " But nothing does grieve me. Come, 
what are we talking of grief? Let us return home ; and I'll tell you a 
story by the way " 

"I shall like that ; it is long since I heard one of your stories, Jutha. 
I shall love to hear one again." 

Jutha rejoiced to find that she had succeeded — as she had hoped to 
do — in turning the child's attention from herself to the promised tale. 
But though Ophelia looked up in her friend's face, with the eagerness 
of expectation, it did not prevent her from noting, with the sorrowing 
acuteness of loving perception, the many tokens of altered mien, to be 
read there. 

She remembered Jutha's brilliant color ; her beautiful face with its 
sunny look of health and liveliness ; her easy, alert gait ; the spotless 
nicety of her neat-fitting garments ; and though so young a child, Ophe- 
lia perceived the contrast they presented with the thin, white cheeks, the 
hollow eyes, the slouching heaviness of person and carriage, the disor- 
dered dress, the general air of depression and self-abandonment. 

The change, although so great, had been so gradual, that the parents 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 217 

and brothers of Jutha, in their obtuseness of perception, and care of 
other matters, had still not observed it : but it had long attracted Ophe- 
lia's eye ; and now it smote upon her heart with more painful force than 
ever. 

; - How the wind howls ! What a dreary autumn evening it is !" said 
Jul ha, looking round her at the darkening sky. " See how the leaves 
whirl, and fall ! The trees will all be bare soon ; and then comes winter 
— cold, cold, winter. No more forest walks, when the trees are bare ! 

' They bore him bare-faced on the bier,' That's not the song I am 

chinking of," she muttered. 

" You think of sad- songs now, Jutha ;" said the child. " Where are 
your merry ones ?" 

' ; Where indeed ? Gone ! All gone ! ' He is gone, he is gone, and 
we cast away moan."' Ay, that is it !" And she began to chant in a 
mournful voice : — 

L: '• And will he not come again ? 
And will he not come again % 
No. no, he is dead. 
Go to thy death-bed, 
He never will come again.' " 
-Who is dead. Jutha? You frighten me ; " said the child. 
" No one is dead ;" said the young girl, quickly. " Who said he was 
dead? They say dead and gone; but we may be gone, without being 
dead, mayn't we, little one? She spoke in a sharp, abrupt tone, as if she 
would fain have made it sound jestingly. Then she hurried on — " Do 
you hear the owl hoot ? See, yonder she flies, with her fiappy wings, 
and mealy feathers. I'll tell you a story about dame owl. I promised 
you a story, you know. Listen." 
' ; I am listening, Jutha." 

The young girl told her the legend as she had heard it. She told her 
that when He who had pity in his heart for the veriest wretch that crawls 
— for the dying thief — for the erring sinner — even for her whose sins were 
many : — when He who taught divine pity and charity above all things, 
walked the earth in human shape, and suffered human privation in the 



218 ophelia; 

plenitude of his merciful sympathy with poor humanity, it once upon a 
time befel. that He hungered by the way. and seeing a shop where bread 
was baking, entered beneath the roof, and asked for some to eat. The 
mistress of the shop was about to put a piece of dough into the oven to 
bake ; but her daughter, pitiless of heart, declaring that the piece was 
too large, reduced it to a mere morsel. This was no sooner done, than 
the dough began to swell and increase, until, in amaze at its miracu- 
lously growing size, the baker's daughter screamed out, like an owlet, 
'Woohoo — hoo — hoo !' Then He who had craved food, held forth his 
hand ; and, in the place where she who lacked charity had stood scream 
ing, there was a void ; but against the window, beating its wings, hoot- 
ing, and struggling to get out, was a huge mealy-feathered owl. It- 
forced a way through, took flight, and was seen no more ; excepting, 
when some night-wanderer descries the ill-omened bird skulking in the 
twilight wood, or obscure grove ; and then he murmurs a prayer, to be 
delivered from the sin of uncharitableness, as he thinks of the trans- 
formed baker's daughter. 

That evening, on their return to the cottage, it seemed to Ophelia, 
that those at home, first became aware of the change in her friend Jutha, 
which she had so long perceived and lamented. But it also strangely 
struck her that instead of this discovery awakening kindness and com- 
passion towards the sufferer, it appeared to excite rather anger, reproach 
and even invectives. Their voices were raised in a confusion of questions, 
threats and expressions of wonder, with which they assailed the young 
girl, in an incoherent clamour, from which the child could make out 
nothing clearly. The mother bemoaned her own and her daughter's 
fate ; the father murmured deep curses ; the two elder brothers, strode an- 
grily to and fro with menacing looks. ground teeth, and clenched hands. 
The idiot boy sat jibbering, and croaking a harsh wailing cry in one cor- ; 
ner ; adding to the general discordance. Jutha had flung herself upon 
a chair in the midst ; upon the back of which she leaned, burying her 
face in her rms. From time to time she uttered convulsive sighs ; 
heavy sobs burst from her. each seeming to rend her frame asunder; but 
else she preserved a sullen, despairing silence, as sole reply to the 
slamorous enquiry that surrounded her. 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 219 

Oj>helia crept away softly to bed, unable to make out tbe meaning 
of this distressful scene : and marvelling much why they should show 
displeasure instead of sorrow at Jutha's illness ; why they should seem to 
resent, rather than to compassionate; why they should 'overwhelm her 
with reproaches in the midst of her unhappiness. instead of seeking to 
comfort and console. For some time, she lay pondering on these things; 
full of concern and wonder : wishing Jutha to come to bed, that she 
might assure her of her sympathy, at least; and longing to see if caress- 
es, and loving words of pity and tenderness might not avail to lessen her 
poor friend's grief. But the hours crept on, and the little one's affec- 
tionate anxiety yielded to drowsiness. She slept ; but it was an unea- 
sy sleep, full of dreams, and haunting ideas of wretchedness and per- 
plexity. From this slumber she awoke strugglingly. and with a beating 
heart. It was pitch dark : she felt that many hours had elapsed, and 
that it was dead of night. She stretched out her arms, to feel for Ju- 
tha at her side : but no Jutha was ' there. In alarm, she started up. 
What could have kept her away ? Was she worse? Was she unable 
to move? Was she still in the midst of that confusion of angry voices? 
The child listened. All seemed still below. What then could prevent 
Jutha from coming up to her room. — to lie down, and to get the rest 
she so much needed? 

In alarm for her friend, in an irresistible desire to learn how she was, 
and 'what detained her, Ophelia stole out of bed, and groped her way 
down stairs. On reaching the door of the sitting-room, she saw a bright 
streak from the crevice at the bottom, which showed her there was light 
in the room. She felt for the latch above her head ; and succeeded in 
finding, and unfastening it. She pushed open the door ; but the blaze 
of light from within, suddenly contrasted with the obscurity from which 
she had emerged, made her pause. She stood on the threshold, gazing 
in, trying to distinguish the objects the room contained. On the large 
table, which occupied the centre of the apartment, lay something extend- 
ed, which was covered with a white cloth. At one end were ranged as 
many iron lamps as the cottage household afforded, burning in a semi- 
circular row. Amazed at this strange sight, the child advanced • and 



220 ophelia ; 

with an uncontrollable impulse, walked straight up to the table, and rais- 
ed the €nd of the white cloth, nearest to the lamps. Their light fell 
full upon the object beneath. Startled, and shuddering, the child look- 
ed upon that which was so familiar, yet so strange. Could that indeed 
be the face of Jutha? — that white, still, rigid thing? — with those 
breathless, motionless lips, and those eyelids, that looked fixed, rather 
than closed ? And what was that, lying upon her breast, encircled by ber 
arm ? A little, little face — a baby's face ! Tt looked so transparent, so 
waxen, — so pretty, though so strangely image-like, that the child invol- 
untarily stretched forth her finger, and touched its cheek. The icy cold 5 
shot, with a sharp thrill, to her heart, and she screamed aloud, as she 
turned to Jutha's face, and flung herself upon it with wild kisses and 
tears. 

Botilda, hearing the cry, came running in. She used her best efforts 
to calm the mourning and affrighted child, carrying her up to bed, lying 
down by her side, folding her in her arms, and speaking fondlingly and 
soothingly to her, until she dropped asleep. But it was long ere this 
was accomplished; and for many successive nights, the nurse had to 
sleep in the room with her charge, that she might be won to rest. The 
shock she had received, was severe ; and long left its effects upon her 
sensitive organization. Naturally gentle, she became timid. She 
shrank about, scared, and trembling ; fearful of she hardly knew what, 
but feeling unassured, doubtful, full of a vague uneasiness and alarm. 

Ulf's hideousness shows more horribly than ever in her eyes. He 
seems to her some fiend-like creature as he crouches there, drawing the 
flaps of his ears over till the tops reach beneath his chin ; pulling his 
nether lip down, and turning it inside out, till it lies stretched, and 
spread, displaying his cankered gums, and his yellow and black teeth, — 
some flat, like tomb-stones, — some long, narrow, and sharp, like the fangs 
of a dog. His manner to herself puzzles and torments her ; for it is 
capricious, and varies accordingly as he meets her alone, or with others. 
When the family are present, he treats her roughly ; speaks of her jeer- 
ingly as the little princess, or the little court-lady ; and twits her with 
pride, — complaining of her silence as haughty, her keeping him at a dis- 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 221 

tance as arrogant and insolent. When, however, by any chance, they 
are by themselves, he becomes cajoling, and tries all means to effect his 
purpose of approaching her, or getting her to come to him. He spares 
neither fair words, wheedling tricks, or shy devices, to lure her within 
reach of his paws ; but neither fawning nor stratagem succeed. Now, 
more than ever, she resists his advances, and contrives to elude his con- 
tact. The former curiosity which had mingled with her disgust at this 
idiot boy, exciting her to observe his uncouth ways, yielded entirely to 
the loathing she felt for him ; and she now dreaded and avoided him as 
sedulously as she had once watched him. 

Upon one occasion, however, her vigilance in preventing his coming 
near her, was frustrated. He was close upon her before she was aware. 
She had been wandering out towards the wood, — it was winter now, and 
the frost hung its glittering fretwork upon bush and briar, — she had 
been thinking how cheerless and desolate all seemed, in despite of the 
brilliancy of the white tracings around, since her companion Jutha was 
lost to her, and could never more come thither, to share her admiration 
of winter frost, spring buds, the rich luxuriance of summer leaves and 
blossoms, or the mellow hues of autumn ; she had been pondering upon 
the mystery of her friend's change of spirits, her sadness, her illness, her 
death ; and then, as there were no flowers to be found in that sullen 
season, she gathered a branch of wild-rose, which bore its winter fruitage 
of scarlet haws in bright profusion, that she might place upon Jutha's 
grave the best semblance that might be of a tributary garland. 

The child repaired with her offering, to the quiet nook, where she 
knew her friend was laid ; and there, tired with her walk, oppressed 
with sad thoughts, and numbed into lethargy by the cold, she threw 
herself upon the low mound, and slept. Not many minutes after, she 
was" perceived lying there, by Ulf, who crept stealthily towards her. 

" It's little court-lady ! And fast asleep !" he muttered, with a grin. 
" No airs now ! The bear shan't be balked of his hug. this time !" 

He leaned down over her. The hot breath reached her face ; like 
the rank fumes of a charcoal-furnace, it seemed to stifle her with its 
tainted oppression. She struggled and woke, to find that loathly visage 



222 ophelia ; 

hanging just above hers. Instinctively, to ward off its fearful approach, 
she clutched at the nearest thing at hand. It was the branch of wild- 
rose, which, beside its scarlet berries, was thickly studded with thorns ; 
and this she thrust with all her force against the impending face. The 
sharp appeal was effectual. The lout drew back, smarting and bleeding. 

" The rose is prickly as well as pretty !" he said, with a leer of idiot 
slyness ; " but we'll see if we can't pluck away its thorns, and smell its 
sweetness, in spite of 'em." 

But in raising his hand to free himself from the obnoxious branch, 
which had rendered her such good service, Ulf gave the child an oppor- 
tunity of slipping from his grasp. She was not slow to avail herself of 
the advantage; but dexterousl}- pulling her skirts from beneath his knee, 
which in his rude eagerness he had set fast upon them, she succeeded in 
raising herself away from him, scrambling to her feet, and setting off to 
run at her utmost speed. It would have availed her but little, had he 
pursued her: but it happened that she had not gone many paces, before 
she was joined by Botilda, who had come out to look for her ; and Ulf, 
at sight of his mother, slunk away, like a cur that fears detection. 

That night, Ophelia lay awake, a prey to fancies and terrors that 

would not let her close her eyes. Botilda, after sharing her bed for 
many nights, thinking that the child had by this time recovered the late 
shock had left her, to return to her own room, after seeing her softly 
drop off into her first sleep. But from this, the little girl had suddenly 
started, broad awake, trembling and agitated, with a frightful dream she 
had been dreaming ; of digging down into Jutha's grave, with a mad de- 
sire to look upon her face once more, — of finding it. only to see it change 
into that of Ulf; who, raising himself from the coffin, groped among the 
mould, and drew forth a little baby's white arm, which he fell to scratch- 
ing and marring with briars. The horror of the sight awoke her; "she 
struggled into a sitting posture, stared through the dim space, and found 
herself alone in that dreary room. She could just distinguish the blank 
square spot where the window was. There was deep snow upon the 
ground — which cast a sickly glare, the moon partially shining from amid 
haze and clouds. The familiar objects in the room looked shadowy and 



THE ROSE OF ELSINOItE. 223 

spectral in that uncertain light ; and the child could get no assurance, 
or steadying of her thoughts, from looking upon them. At length it 
seemed to her, that among them, — there — yonder — at the farther end 
of the room, she saw something move. It was dark, and stole along 
without noise ; shapeless, indistinct, scarce seen, but horribly present. 
She shuddered ; and shrank beneath the bed-clothes. Her heart beat 
violently, and her head throbbed. — so loud that she could have counted 
the thumps of each. She had a confused notion of trying to do this, 
amid the distraction of hearing her teeth keep a bewildering counter- 
current of strokes, in a rapid timing of their own. Presently, she 
clenched them firmly, that she might listen to something that caught her 
ear beside the tumult of her own pulses. She thought she heard a muf- 
fled sound, as if something swept against the coverlet of her bed. In 
desperation, she held her breath, to listen the more acutely, for what she 
so much dreaded to hear. Yes. — again the sound, as of something 
softly drawn along the side of the coverlet, was repeated ; and this time 
she felt the bed-clothes brushed by the passing substance. She would 
have shrieked aloud ; but her parched throat refused to give utterance 
to the cry of terror that choked her. Could it be an animal ? Was it 
anything alive? Or were there indeed wandering shapes of evil permit- 
ted to visit the earth in night and darkness, as wild tales hinted ? The 
child's dismay hurriedly pointed to such questions ; but on a sudden, 
her attention was attracted to quite a different source. There was a 
noise of trampling feet in the snow outside ; a sound of many voices ; 
a loud knocking at the door of the cottage ; and upon her finding cour- 
age to look from beneath the bed-clothes, she could see the light of 
torches flashing and gleaming through the window. Then there came 
a stir in the house ; a hurry below ; hasty steps ascended the stairs ; 
and in another moment the door of her room was flung open, and in the 
midst of the stream of light that poured in, a figure appeared, which 
rushed forward to the bed where she lay, exclaiming, " My child ! my 
dear, dear child ! My little Ophelia !" 

" Mamma !" was the instinctive reply, as the child felt herself gath- 
ered into the soft security of a mother's bosom. 



224 ophelia ; 

In the confusion, no one had remarked the cowering form of Ulf ; 
who darted from a lurking place by the bedside, and made his way out 
through the open door, just as the others passed into the room. It was 
he, who, in his brutish pertinacity of desire to obtain the hug he prom- 
ised himself, had alarmed the child by prowling stealthily about her 
chamber in the dark. But now, no more fear, no more harm, she was 
surely, happily sheltered. 

The lady Aoudra could not sufficiently feast her eyes upon her 
daughter's face ; again she scanned every feature, noted every particular 
of look and expression, — sought eagerly each mark of remembered ap- 
pearance, and traced each vestige of growth and alteration. As she 
gazed, she became aware of the burning spot that glowed and deepened 
in the young cheek, the too bright sparkle of the eyes, the unnatural 
restlessness of the lips, which at length wore an almost vacant smile, 
while the fingers idly played among the long curls of her mother's hair, 
drooping over her. In alarm, the lady caught her child's hand in her's ; 
it was feverishly hot. 

" I have been culpably unheedful — inconsiderate ; I shall have only 
my own rash selfishness to blame, should the surprise have been too much 
for my darling. Yet who would have expected such sensitiveness — such 
susceptibility in one so young 1 Dear child ! Mother's own treasure ! 
Mother's little tender one !" 

Fondly, gently, she set about repairing the mischief she feared she 
had done. She shaded the light away from the too eager eyes : she 
coaxed them to close,— to cease to look upon her, by clasping one of the 
hands in hers, that the child might know she was still there ; she lay 
down beside her, parting the hair back upon the heated forehead, giving 
her from time to time cooling drinks, and suggesting none but peaceful 
happy thoughts, in the low soft talking she murmured the while in her 
ear. Lulled thus, the child fell into slumber ; but for some hours it was 
a disturbed, uneasy one, giving the lady many a pang of dread and self- 
reproach. Violent startings, abrupt twitching of the limbs, talking in 
her sleep, muttered ends of songs and mournful tunes alternately alarmed 
the. watcher. Once, the little girl sprang suddenly up. trembling, and 



THE ROSE OP ELSINORE. 225 

looking about her with a sacred eagerness of expectation, clinging con- 
vulsively to the arm stretched to receive her ; but when she felt herself 
enfolded within a mother's embrace, when she found herself safe nestling 
against a mother's heart, cherished by a mother's affection, guarded by 
a mother's care, she yielded tranquilly, blissfully, to a' sense of perfect 
repose. Lapped in that balmy atmosphere of maternity, she sank into 
profound rest. 

Holy mother-love ! nearest semblance vouchsafed to mortals of Di- 
vine protection ! Benignest human symbol of God's mercy to man ! 
There is a blessed influence, a sacred joy, a plenitude of satisfaction, in 
the very presence of a mother, that plainer speaks the mysterious beati- 
tude of Heaven itself to earthly intelligence, than aught else in existence. 

The little Ophelia awoke next morning from her healing sleep, re- 
vived ; and quite herself. She was so free from the feverish symptoms 
which had so much alarmed her mother, overnight, that Aoudra thought 
she might venture to remove her at once to their home at Elsinore. 

The complete change proved the most beneficial thing that could have 
been devised. In the new scene to which she was introduced, the child 
acquired unwonted spirits. She gained more of the carelessness befitting 
her age : she lost that look of uneasiness, and irresolution, which had 
struck her mother so painfully at first ; she seemed no longer oppressed 
by a vague solicitude and dread which had appeared to haunt her, and 
hang its weight on her spirits. The only time there was any trace in 
her of a recurrence to such impressions, was when there happened to be 
allusion made to her past existence. She appeared averse from speaking, 
or even thinking, of the period she had spent at the cottage. She never 
reverted to it of her own accord ; never mentioned any of the names of 
her former associates, or recalled any circumstance that occurred among 
them ; and her mother, perceiving how distasteful the subject was., took 
care never to revive it in her child's mind. It was avoided altogether ; 
the lady Aoudra only regretting that she had ever been compelled to 
leave her little one in what had evidently been so uncongenial a home, 

Her chief care was now to surround her child with none but pleasant, 
healthful influences, of person, scene, and circumstance. She kept her 



226 ophelia ; 

as much as possible in her own society, and in that of her father, — the 
lord Polonius, — whenever his court duties permitted him to be at home. 
Her young son, Laertes, was with them, for a period, until the time 
should arrive for his going to the university. Meantime, masters were 
engaged: and the children pursued their studies together; though the 
lady Aoudra chiefly superintended those of her little girl herself. She 
appointed the one -of her own women to whom Ophelia seemed to have 
taken the greatest fancy, to the child's particular attendant. Guda was 
a lively, good-tempered girl ; and her cheerful companionship was one of 
the wholesome accessories by which the mother hoped to effect a removal 
of any sinister impression that might remain upon her child's spirits of 
byegone discomforts. 

The affection that now had full opportunity of taking its natural 
growth between father and child, contributed greatly to the happiness of 
Ophelia's new existence. Polonius became dotingly fond of his little 
girl ; and she in turn reverenced him with all duteous affection. She 
would watch for his home-coming ; soon getting to know the hours of 
his return from attendance at the palace ; and then she would set his 
easy chair, and bring his slippers, and the furred gown, for which he 
exchanged his court robes, when indulging in domestic ease; and then 
he would pat her cheek, or pass his hand over her fair young head, and 
say some fondling words of rejoicing that he now possessed so pretty a 
living toy at home as his little daughter, to beguile his leisure hours. 

He was a good-natured man, of a kindly disposition, with much ori- 
ginal shrewdness, and a great deal of acquired worldly knowledge. He 
was an odd compound of natural familiarity, and assumed dignity; of 
affability and importance; of condescension and dictatorialness ; of gar- 
rulous ease and ostentation. He was often jocular, and would twinkle 
his half merry, half astute eyes, rubbing his hands with a chuckling air 
of enjoyment, as if he had not a thought beyond the relish of the imme- 
diate jest ; but, some time after, as if willing to show that it was the 
mere momentary unbending of the great statesman, he would knit his 
brow, lean back in his chair, with his hand supporting his chin, and look 
meditative. He used a pompous enunciation for the most part ; but 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 227 

occasionally, his opiniated eagerness would run away with him — hurry 
him into forgetfulness of the main thread of his subject, until he was 
brought suddenly to a check — a pause, from which he sought hasty re- 
fuge in the resumption of his didactic style. 

He was fond of parcelling out his speech into formal divisions ; of 
putting forth his opinions in set phrases ; he was full of precept ; sen- 
tentious in speech ; and uttered his axioms in an authoritative voice. 
He spoke preceptively. He would talk to his wife in manner of an 
oration ; clearing his voice, and pausing a little, as if to bespeak full 
attention ere he began. He liked to see those around him performing 
audience to his dicta. He would- address the guests at his table, as if 
they were a committee, or a board of council ; and harangue, rather 
than converse. He prided himself on great foresight and perspicacity. 

He ordinarily prefaced with a hem ; and emphasized, as he went on, 
with one hand in the palm of the other, or by reckoning off each clause, 
successively, on his fingers. He collected attention by canvassing 
glances ; gathered it in by shcirp espial upon those in whom he per- 
ceived symptoms of its straying; and kept it from wandering by a short 
admonitory cough. He was accustomed to ask, in a triumphant tone, 
when any prediction of his was ever known to fail in being verified by 
the event. He affected diplomacy and expediency in action ; mystery 
in expression : craft in device. He had a habit of laying artful schemes 
in conversation, for entrapping those about him into betrayals of charac- 
teristics such as he had ascribed to them — and then would exult in the 
proofs of his accurate judgment. " You see ! "What did I say V He 
piqued himself on ingenuity in compassing his ends; and, in their ac- 
complishment, preferred contrivance and cunning to the commonplace 
means of straightforward procedure. 

Policy was his rule of action ; statesmanship his glory of ambition. 
He would complain of the fatigues of office ; of the onerous demands of 
a court life ; of the cares of government ; but secretly, official dignities, 
a courtier's existence, and ministerial power, formed the sum of his de- 
sires. 

His wife, the lady Aoudra, understood his character well ; but both 



228 ophelia ; 

her affection for the good qualities he possessed, and her conjugal duty 
taught her to acquiesce in his peculiarities, forhearing to show any un- 
meet consciousness of them. She would gravely listen, when he told 
her of some deep-laid plot he had, for bringing about what she, in her 
singleness of mind, thought might have been effected by much simpler 
means; she heard in silence, yet with attentive sympathy, his plans of 
ambition, his projects for advancement; and she took active interest in 
his schemes for the national welfare, even when she felt them to be more 
subtly devized, than practically applicable. 

But she could not forbear smiling — though to herself only — when 
she saw him carry this system of policy into his domestic sway. When 
she saw him exercise his authority as husband, father, and master, by a 
sort of trick ; when she found him securing her wifely obedience. — that 
obedience which would have been spontaneously yielded, without induce- 
ment. — by management and winning artifices; when she found him 
governing his children, ruling his household, regulating his affairs, nay 
ordering his servants by a calculated method of stratagem, she could dc 
no other than smile. Beyond all else that provoked her smile, was to 
see how the innocence of childhood — the unconscious simplicity of his 
young son and daughter set at naught the diplomatist's skill. — frustrated 
and rendered null his intrigues by an ingenuous look or word. 

Instead of openly forbidding or reprehending certain deeds, he 
would lay snares for discovering whether they had been committed ; and 
while the process was going on, his penetration was baffled, by the art- 
less behavior of the children. His guile was futile against their candor ; 
and was more frequently proved at fault than they. His sagacity was 
always aiming at detection, where no delinquency existed ; ever bent on 
discovering some concealment, where there was nothing to conceal. It 
was almost comic to see the searching frown he would bend on one of 
those clear, open countenances held up to him in confident unreserve, 
conscious of no shadow of blame. The questioning eye, the shrewd 
glance, the artfully put enquiry, seemed absurd, directed against such 
transparent honesty. 

In consequence of this system of their father's, his praise was some 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 229 

times as mysterious and unexpected to the young Laertes and Ophelia 
as his reproof. 

On one occasion, he called them to him and commended them high- 
ly, for never having been into a certain gallery which he had built out into 
his garden for the reception of some pictures, bequeathed to him by a 
French nobleman — a friend of his — lately dead. 

Seeing a look of surprise on their faces, he added : — li Ah. you mar- 
vel how I came to know so certainly that you never went in. But I have 
methods deep and sure, — a little bird, or my little finger. — in few, you 
need not assure me, that you never entered that gallery: for I happen to 
be aware, beyond a doubt that you never did. And I applaud your 
discretion." 

" But we did go in ;" said Ophelia. 

" What, child 1 Pooh, impossible ! Come to me ; look me full 
in the face." Not that she looked down, or aside, or an] thing but 
straight at him ; but he always used this phrase conventionally, when 
he conducted an examination. " I tell you, you never went into that 
gallery: I know it for a fact. There's no use in attempting to deceive 
your father. I should have discovered it, had you gone into that room 
without my permission." 

' ; But did you not wish us to go there? I never knew you forbade 
it ?" said Laertes. " If we had known you had any objection, neither 
Ophelia nor I would have " 

" I never forbade it certainly," interrupted his father : ' : but I had 
strong reasons for wishing that you should not go into the room till the 
pictures were hung. You might have injured them. No, no ; I knew 
better than to let heedless children play there : so I took means to pre- 
vent your entering the gallery without my knowledge." 

" But we did play there, every day, father ;" said Laertes. 

u Yes ;" said Ophelia. 

" And I tell you, impossible ! Listen to me ; I fastened a hair across 
the entrance. The invisible barrier is yet unbroken. So that you see. 
you could not have passed through that door without my knowledge." 

' : But we didn't go through the door, papa ; we got in at the window!" 



230 ophelia ; 

exclaimed both the children. We didn't know you wished us not tc 
play there ; so, finding a space which the builders had left, in one of the 
windows that look into the garden, we used to creep in there, and amuse 
ourselves with locking at the new pictures. We did no harm ; only ad- 
mired." 



Time went on. Laertes now a tall stripling, was sent to Paris, — 
then famous as a seat of learning. The motives which swayed Polonius 
in the choice of the university to which he decided upon sending his son, 
were characteristic. He owned to his wife, that he should Lave prefer- 
red sending the youth to Wittenberg, where the king's son was a student; 
such an opportunity for intimacy with the prince being a great tempta- 
tion ; but there was a certain personage, highly influential with the 
court of France, who had exacted a promise from him that Laertes should 
be educated at the university of Paris ; and as it was of the utmost im- 
portance that the friendly relations with France which he had establish- 
ed during the period of his embassage there, should be carefully main- 
tained, he resolved that nothing should interfere with his son's being 
placed at college m that country. 

Ophelia grew into delicate girlhood. Ever quiet, — ever diffident, in 
her retiring gentleness and modesty ; but serene, and happy. A tran- 
quil-spirited maiden / unexacting, even-tempered, affectionate ; one of 
those, upon whom the eyes and hearts of all near, dwell with a feeling 
of repose. 

Her father now began to look forward to his long-cherished hope of 
introducing her at court ; where he beheld her already attracting his 
sovereign's gracious notice, and winning the favour of the Queen. He 
imparted his views to his wife ; adding, that all Ophelia wanted, was a 
little forming in manner, to render her presentable ; and to that end 
he intended cultivating for her the acquaintance of a young lady, daugh- 
ter to a friend of his, the lord Cornelius. 

Aoudra ventured the pardonable motherly remark, that their young 
Ophelia was perfectly well-bred ; a gentlewoman in every particular. 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 231 

,c An air of nobility distinguishes her mien ; and the look of unruffled 
content in the blue depths of those violet eyes, revealing the sweet pla- 
cidity of her nature, gives a crowning grace of self-possession and ease, 
that might become a princess. If a court atmosphere, if the royal pres- 
ence be our child's destiny, she seems fitted for them by nature. 

•• Ay, ay. by nature. But art may do somewhat. Art may do much, 
Polish, refinement : a conventional breeding in manner : an air of the 
world : — are attained only by associating with those accustomed to move 
in courtlv circles. The lady Thyra. daughter to my friend Cornelius. 
having lost her mother when quite a child, has been early habituated to 
receive guests, to preside over her father's establishment. — in few, to 
enact betimes the centre of a distinguishable circle. To promote a friend- 
ship between this young lady and our daughter will be to place Ophelia 
beneath fitte-st tutelage — in the very school to form her for the 'future 
station she will fill." 

-Is this young lady Thyra. — unrestricted in her proceedings, choosing 
her own associates, complete mistress of her conduct and herself. — quite 
the best associate, think you. my lord, for our daughter? May there not 
be risk as well as advantage in the companionship?" 

■• What but advantage can there be. good my lady ? The lord Cor- 
nelius enjoys the royal confidence. He will rise to highest honors in 
the state. I foresee. — trust this brain of mine. — I foresee. I say. that 
when an envoy to Norway shall be needed, he will — but no matter. 
'Where was I? oh — His wealth is ample : and he allows his daughter 
well-nigh unlimited command of his means and fortune. What more 
would you have V 

- So more : nay. not so much. Her power, her position I doubt not; 
'tis herself I mean. Is she " 

■• Tut. tut. lady mine :" interrupted Aoudra's husband, with a wave 
cf the hand, which she well knew to be of final significancy. "She is in 
all respects what I could best wish for my girl's friend. The lord Cor- 
nelius is as anxious as myself for the improvement of the acquaintance ; 
and it is my will that henceforth the families shall be intimate. Let it 
be looked to." 



232 OPHELIA J 

" My coach shall be ordered forthwith, my lord ; I will wait upon the 
young lady with our daughter without delay, since such is your wish ;" 
said the lady-wife duteously ; adding to herself " I will hope that it is 
no more than a mother's anxiety which makes me see a groundless fear 
in this friendship. The lady Thyra may be all that I could desire, in 
heart and mind, for my Ophelia's associate. At all events, I shall now 
see her myself, and judge." 

As far as judgment could be formed in a first visit, all that Aoudra 
saw of Cornelius's daughter that morning led her to rejoice that so plea- 
sant an intimacy as this promised to be, should have been begun. The 
young lady was evidently the petted child of a fond father, who knew not 
how to refuse her anything. But this indulgence did not seem to have 
spoiled her — and that alone, spoke greatly in favor of her natural dispo- 
sition. She was neither imperious, nor wilful; there was none of the 
insolence in manner, or impatience of controul, which might have been 
generated by such a course as hers, of irresponsible self-government. She 
received the lady Aoudra with much gentle grace ; and with a tone of 
respect in her welcome, which showed, that having been so long her own 
mistress had not destroyed that deference which youth owes to superi- 
ority of age and experience. She was sprightly, without hardness ; she 
was easy, without forwardness; she was self-possessed, without a spark 
of self-conceit in her demeanour. There was a tone of good-breeding in 
her every word and gesture, which showed that she was accustomed to 
much society ; but there was that in her manner which bespoke good- 
ness of heart as well as courtesy of tongue ; there was an unrestrained 
freedom in her mode of speech which told plainly how habituated she 
was to the expression of her opinions and feelings before numbers, but 
there was something also that revealed how little need there was for re- 
serve in any of her thoughts or sentiments. She was obviously kind- 
natured, as well as complaisant ; affectionate as well as affable ; amiable 
as well as polite. 

As for Ophelia, she was charmed with her ; and the young lady 
Thyra, seemed no less won by the modest sweetness of Aoudra' s 
daughter. A mutual and strong attraction at once subsisted between 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 233 

the two girls ; and after their first introduction to each other, they be- 
came as rapidly and completely intimate, as the fathers could have 
desired. 

Soon, no morning was spent apart ; and Thyra, intent upon enjoying 
her new friend's society uninterruptedly, made a point of receiving 
Ophelia alone, and of appointing her usual visitors in the evening only, 
henceforward. She could assume a pretty tyranny — a kind of playful 
despotism, when she chose. It sat well on her ; and her friends sub- 
mitted to it, — well-pleased, — as only another grace, in the graceful 
Thyra. There was so much of feminine elegance in what she did and 
said, that it seemed her natural prerogative to have all yield to her. 
She was not wilful : but she liked to have her own way : and it was so 
pleasantly asserted, so inoffensively insisted on, that no one dreamed of 
denying it her. She was so winning while she dictated, so obliging in 
the midst of her exactions, so really thoughtful of the feelings of others 
while she affected to be thinking only of her own, so truly kind, while 
so pretendedly selfish, that all loved to obey her behests ; and indeed, 
it was generally found, in the end. that they were prompted by a con- 
sideration for the general pleasure, as well as for hers in particular. 

'•You know, sweet friend, we could not find the way to each other's 
hearts, were we to meet in a crowd every day, instead of thus familiarly, 
unrestrainedly, doing and saying exactly what we please, while together. 
As -we do now ; do we not?" said she to Ophelia, as they sat together, 
in Thyra's pleasant room — her own peculiar room, which was fitted up 
with every graceful luxury a young girl's taste could suggest in its 
adornment, and looking out as it did upon the gardens hj which her 
father's mansion was surrounded, — its windows shadowed with trees and 
flowering climbers, it was in all respects the ideal of a lady's bower. 
x; Besides, I mean you to know something of the people you will meet, 
before you come among them, since you have owned to me, with that 
charming simplicity and frankness of yours, that you feel some awe at 
the thought of encountering strangers." 

" I have so little seen of strange faces ;" said Ophelia. " My father's 
guests are chiefly men high in office, counsellors of state, grave and dig 



234 OPHELIA , 

nified personages ; and my dear mother, thinking one so young could 
not as yet derive advantage from their conversation, allowed me to keep 
our own apartments, when there were visitors." 

" You shall hear all about mine, ere you are introduced ; and then 
they will be no strangers to you when you see them. You will be ac- 
quainted with them beforehand ; and it's a great advantage, let me tell 
you, to have this key,— knowledge of the character, — previously to look- 
ing upon the face. Those, w T ho have none of your novice modesty, 
would often be fain to get possession of such a treasure as this same 
key." 

" Is it quite fair that I should have the advantage you speak of. 
Thyra?" 

"Never fear, thou dear scrupulous novice! Those very people, 
could they know that their characters have been discussed, would be the 
best pleased. So that we are but thought of, talked of, our self-esteem 
is satisfied. To be unnoticed — to be of such insignificance, as to be left 
uncriticised, that is the sting most difficult for human pride to endure." 

' : Then pray indulge them and me by some of your strictures ;" said 
Ophelia, smiling. " Let us hear what biting things your amount of 
malice can allow itself to utter. And yet your lip slanders itself if it 
be a slanderer of others." 

" Nay, no slander ; truth, nothing but truth. Come, with whom 
shall I begin 1 Methinks I'll commence at once with the highest — and 
so get the most dangerous part of my task despatched first. Our sove- 
reign and his queen have honored my father's house with their presence, 
but I may not, of course, count their majesties among my visitors ; the 
king's brother, however, lord Claudius, is not an unfrequent guest here, 
and he " 

" You have been presented to their majesties? You know the king's 
person— the queen's : tell me somewhat of them." 

41 The king is a grave-looking man ; warlike and noble in his bear 
ing ; full of dignity and command ; and looks, — as he indeed is — the 
accomplished soldier and ruler. The queen is very beautiful, both in 
face and person. Graciously condescending in the kind notice and en- 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 235 

couragement she accorded to myself — a young girl undergoing her first 
presentation." 

" And what of the prince, their son, lord Hamlet? I have heard 
my father speak of him as a student of great repute ; he saj^s, that he 
has wou high academic honors ; and that if he were not of royal birth, 
he could make himself illustrious, as a man of learning." 

" Nay, he's even too much of the scholar, for my taste :" said the 
lively Thyra. " He has dark reflective eyes, which would be beautiful, 
but that he allows them to become absorbed in musing and speculation, 
instead of letting them discourse agreeable things. He has a handsome 
mouth, which he resigns to a meditative idleness, when he might give it 
its natural action in pleasant converse. He is thoughtful, when he 
should be amusing : he is absent, when I want him to be attending to 
what I say. or to be inventing something to say to me. All this is 
owing to his studious habit, which moreover, will, if he don't take care, 
spoil his figure — for he's inclined to fat ; and a fat gentleman, thou 
know'st. even though he be a prince, can never form a lady's ideal of a 
man." 

" What sort of man must he be, to embody Thyra's idea of manly 
perfection ?" said her young friend. 

' : Nay, I cannot telh not I," replied Thyra, with a momentary embar- 
rassment ; then recovering herself, she went on : "Not such a man as 
my lord Claudius, assuredly. He comes next to tell thee of. There's 
something marvellously unattractive to me, about that lord. Though 
he be of blood-royal, he looks not noble ; and though his lineage be 
high, he hath naught lofty in his mien. And yet I cannot tell what 
ails me, that I should not approve him. He is full of suavity, and is 
assiduous in his courtesies and attentions ; but they are too much on 
demand, to seem very spontaneous. You shall catch him gnawing the 
hilt of his dagger in moody silence, and the next instant shall see him 
all smiles and ready adulation. His face changes too voluntary-sudden 
for sincerity. He'll shift you his manner from sad-browed to jesting, 
from abstracted to attentive, at a moment's bidding. I never feel at 
ease in his company ; and care not if he never came here again ; but 



236 ophelia ; 

my father considers the visits of the king's brother an honor to our 
house, and so I receive him with as good a grace as I can muster." 

'• Thyra, like a good daughter, makes her own inclinings bend to 
those of her father ;" said Ophelia. 

" You give me too much credit for filial submission, I fear ;" re- 
turned she, with a slight blush and a laugh. " My father has hitherto 
given such free course to my likings, that I can scarcely think he would 

wish me to fashion them by his. And yet, I know not " She 

paused, then resumed : 

" There is the lord Yoltimand ; but he is my father's friend, not 
mine. His forty-odd years, and his wise head, claim affinity with sager 
maturity than I can boast. He is no associate for my giddy self. Then 
there are Marcellus and Bernardo, two young officers of the king's 
guard ; true soldiers, light-hearted, pleasant, rattle-pates ; with more 
valour than knowledge, more animal spirits than mental acquirement ; 
but withal very agreeable companions — and their uniforms are a great 
help to make my saloon look bright and gay." 

'■ You tell me chiefly of your gentlemen guests ; have you no ladies 
among your visitors, dear Thyra ?" 

" Ay, truly, there's no lack of ladies to make our parties complete ;" 
said Thyra. ' ; But one court-lady is so like another court-lady, that as 
I was giving you an insight into the character of the people you will 
meet, I naturally left out those who seldom can boast of much distinc- 
tive feature in that kind. But I am waxing impertinent, methinks. 
There are, in good sadness, some sweet women among our lady-friends, 
but thou wilt find those out for thyself. They are not among the for- 
midable strangers I had to tell thee of. Let me see ; who else? 0, 
ay, there are Osric of Stolzberg, and Eric of Kronstein, two lords, whose 
estates adjoin that of my father ; you will often meet them here." 

' ; Are they of the formidable class I may expect to see ?" asked 
Ophelia. 

u Truly, I know not why I classed them together; for they differ in 
every particular, save in being provincial neighbors of ours. When we 
are in the country they are our constant guests. But the one is a youth, 
the other a man : the one is bovish. the other manly ; the one has ma 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 237 

ture ideas ; the other, no ideas at all. The young lord of Stolzberg is 
a coxcomb ; while the lord of Kronstein is — is — well, perhaps something 
very near the ideal we spoke of, ere now." 

Thyra paused a moment, with a little conscious laugh ; while she 
stole a glance at Ophelia's face ; but she saw ft looking so quiet, so girl- 
like innocent, that she went on : — 

" Perhaps it is from the contrast between these two lords, that the 
one appears to me so greatly above the other. It is not every one who 
finds Kronstein so gifted, or Stolzberg so inane. One great advantage 
in public esteem, the latter possesses over the former; which is. that his 
domains are extensive, his land unencumbered, his possessions exclu- 
sively within his own power ; while the other lord has a magnificence of 
taste which has led to rather a profuse expenditure, and it is whispered 
that his estates are deeply mortgaged. This report has blunted worldly 
judgment, and dulled the edge of its discrimination, in awarding the 
palm of merit between the two. General opinion lackeys the rich lord- 
ling, and can scarcely allow the personal desert of the accomplished, but 
acre-dipped Kronstein. Certain it is, that my father and I differ wide- 
ly in our estimate of their respective attractions. He favours the one 
while I " 

" While you judge the lord of Kronstein to be the superior man. 
however he may be the poorer lord ;" said Ophelia, simply ; filling 
up the pause in her friend's speech. 

" Yes, dear novice ;" rejoined Thyra, with another smile and shy 
glance at the quiet unconscious face. '• I must call thee novice, dear 
Ophelia, thou seem'st to me so nun-like new to all worldly thoughts and 
ideas. Thou art a very child still, I do believe, though that grave face, 
and sedate air of thine, make thee seem a woman. I'll wager now, thou 
hast scarce obtained the dignity of teens ?" 

" You guess my age accurately, dear Thyra ; I have scarce seen years 
enough to give me a claim to equality of friendship with you, who must 
be well-nigh half a dozen summers riper in wisdom than I ; but I can 
make up in loving respect for thee, what I lack in befitting qualities to 
give me claim upon thy liking." 

" We will love and confide in each other entirely, as friends should ; 



238 orHELiA ; 

and be of all the greater mutual benefit, for what there is dissimilar oe- 
tween us ;" said Thyra. " My social experience shall help you in learn- 
ing to face strangers ; and thy novice candour shall teach me the beauty 
of unworldliness. Let me commence the lessons I am to give, by initia- 
ting you in the mysteries of chess, — now the most fashionable of games" 

" Is it so much played ? I knew you were fond of it, for I see the 
board stand ever ready ;' — but I knew not it was in general favour." 

' : Yes. For some time, it was banished from court, after that fatal 
game, famous in our Danish chronicles, when the sovereign dynasty was 
changed by a choleric blow with a chess-board ; but of late, the taste has 
revived ; and the game is pursued with greater zest than ever. We 
have some skilful players amongst us. The lord of Kronstein is mas- 
terful at it. He was my instructor. When we were last at my fath- 
er's country seat of Rosenheim, we played together daily." 

" Then you are, doubtless, now, a well-skilled player yourself, dear 
Thyra. I fear you will find me an unhopeful scholar ;" said Ophelia. 

" You are ingenuous, you are artless, you are unsuspicious, dear 
girl ;" said Thyra. looking at her earnestly, with affectionate admiration ; 
" and those seem unpromising qualities for attaining proficiency in a game 
where stratagem and contrivance are main requisites ; but vigilance, pa- 
tience, are also wanted : and these you have, for certain. Your noticing 
that my chess-board is always at hand, bespeaks an observant eye ; and 
watchfulness may secure success, when over-eager craft rushes into the 
jaws of an unespied check-mate. But come ; let us begin." 

At this moment, an attendant entered. " I can see no visitors to- 
day ;" Thyra said impatiently, as she ranged the pieces on the board, 
signing to the servant to withdraw. " See that I am denied to every 
one; and say that I receive, this evening." 

" I stated such to be your ladyship's orders ;" said the attendant ; 
"but my lord would take no refusal ; he bade me carry up his name, 
and beseech that your ladyship would see him, for that he hath news 
which " 

" Then why dost not announce his name, sirrah ?" interrupted the 
young lady. " Who is it?" 



THE ROSE OF ELSINOItE. 239 

e: The lord Eric of Kronstein, madam ;" was the reply. 

The colour flushed into Thyra's face ; but she said in a composed 
voice — that composure and command of voice which courtly breeding 
teaches. - Give entrance to my lord of Kronstein ; he doubtless brings 
inteligence from Rosenheim — from my father." Then, as the servant 
quitted the room, she added : — ' ; I make an exception in this visitor's 
favour, dear Ophelia, because I think thou wilt feel curiosity to see one 
of whom we have been speaking so much." 

" Your report was too favourable not to induce a wish to know him;" 
replied she ; " I shall be glad -" 

:; He is here !." said Thyra. Her manner showed so much agitation, 
so involuntary a delight, such blushing joy., that it could not have failed 
betrayiug her secret to one more versed in such tell-tale symptoms than 
her young companion. But Ophelia perceived in it only the pleasure 
and animation with which a friend preferred to others for his estimable 
qualities, would naturally be welcomed. 

Besides, her attention was principally engaged by the new comer. 
Not only did the description she had recently heard, cause her to look 
at him with interest, but there was something in his appearance which 
struck her with a singular impression, as of something remembered — 
something long since s«en. She continued to gaze upon the face and 
figure, as though they were a pictured image of some shadow in her 
memory.. So complete was this effect of his appearance upon her, that 
she kept her eyes fixed upon him with almost as unreserved a regard as 
if he had indeed been a portrait, instead of a living man. 

For him, he was too much engrossed by the greetings that took place 
between himself and Thyra, to perceive the attention with which the 
young lady stranger was looking at him. 

Presently however, her friend, recollecting her duty as hostess, per- 
formed the ceremony of introduction. He bowed, courteously : and was 
about to resume his conversation, when something, in the cursory glance 
he had bestowed upon Ophelia, seemed to strike him, also, with a vague 
sense of recollection. He hesitated ; looked at her ; but seeming to ob- 
tain no confirmation of his passing fancy from what he saw, upon this 



240 ophelia ; 

second view of the tall slight figure before him, he went on with what he 
was saying to the lady Thyra. 

He asked after all their mutual town acquaintance ; told her how dull 
Rosenheim had appeared after she had left it for Elsinore ; but said that 
he had made a point of paying his duty there regularly to the lord Cor- 
nelius, who had charged him with loving messages for his daughter, on 
hearing that he was about to ride to the metropolis. 

" My lord, your father, desired me to say that he trusts many days 
will not elapse ere he joins you here in Elsinore ; but meantime, as I 
am returning to Rosenheim, he bade me ask you for a packet of papers, 
which- " 

"You return to Rosenheim, my lord 1 When? How soon?" was 
Thyra's hurried enquiry. 

" Immediately — I am compelled — indeed, I must — my presence, just 
now. is indispensable at my own poor place :" he said, in reply to the 
mute reproach conveyed by her eyes, and by the tone of her voice ; "but 
it will not be so, for any time ; the estate ere long, reverts incontestably 
to " 

He paused in the low-toned but eager explanation he was pouring 
forth; but Thyra seemed satisfied with these few broken words: for ad- 
verting to the packet he had mentioned, she said : — " But these papers 
my father requires, my lord ; did he say where they were to be found ?" 

" He bade me tell you, you would find them in the ebon cabinet, by 
his study-chair, lady : this sealed packet, with which he charged me for 
you, contains the key, together with more precise directions for your 
guidance." 

" I will seek them at once, my lord, since your return must needs be 
immediate. But remember," she added, with a resumption of vivacity ; 
" your friends in Elsinore will look eagerly for your coming soon among 
them again. Your stay at Rosenheim must be brief as may be." 

"My own wishes will limit its duration to the shortest possible span 
believe me, lady. They abide in Elsinore, even while necessity chains 
myself elsewhere." 

His eyes followed her. as she withdrew to fetch the packet ; and 



THE ROSE OP ELSINORE. 241 

when she disappeared, he turned, in an abstracted manner, to the table 
on which the chess-board stood; and played mechanically with one of 
the pieces, twirling it round and round upon its circular foot. Suddenly 
he seemed to remember that he was not alone, and that he owed some 
courtesy of attention to the young lady who sat there so silent, and so 
still. He was about to address her with some slight remark, when, upon 
raising his eyes towards her, he found hers fixed upon his face. 

Her look was so steadfast that it perplexed the gentleman, man of 
the world as he was. He took up the chess-man, and idled with it 
against his lip, in embarrassment of which he himself hardly understood 
the source. 

A slight incident will sometimes prompt a struggling memory, while 
vainly striving to help itself by recalling more important clues. The 
form of the ivory piece canght Ophelia's eye ; and suddenly she ex- 
claimed, " The knight ! The white horse ! I remember, the wood — 
lord Eric — ay, that was the name. I recollect it now. It was you, 
then, who -" 



" Hush ! Can it be possible ?" was the hasty exclamation, as he 
looked 'round to see that no one was near. ' ; 'Sdeath !" he muttered; 
" the unopened rosebud, by all that's strange ! How came she here ? 
How came she to be there ? " 

"You never returned, after Jutha became so altered — so ill? You 
never knew that she died ?" 

The lip blanched to well-nigh the whiteness of the chess-man that 
had lately touched it. 

'• I knew you would be sorry for her, when you came to hear of it. 
You were kind to her ; you liked her. Poor Jutha !" 

" Be silent, I conjure you, young lady. Do not speak that name 
again — it can do no good — it may do fearful harm. Mischief — misery — 
more evil than you can conceive, or could ever repair." 

He looked round again, in great agitation and anxiety. " Do not 
name her here, I entreat, I implore " 

His manner, so earnest in its hurried supplication, had its effect upon 
Ophelia. But she answered in her own quiet way, " I have never men- 



242 



OPHELIA 



tioned her ; she is unknown here. She had almost faded from my own 
thought, as had your face and person. I hardly remembered you. I 
was a little child then ; at nurse, in that remote country place." 

Her ingenuous look, her simple unconsciousness, as she spoke, 
plainly told the man of the world that this innocent girl had no suspi- 
cion of the share he had had in the unhappy Jutha's fate. His dark 
secret was safe, could he but hope that she would never revive his vic- 
tim's name ; never repeat the tale of his forest-visits, to others more 
clear-sighted, more experienced, than herself. 

He summoned all his address to his aid. He told Ophelia how she 
herself had grown out of his knowledge ; that he should not have recog- 
nized the little rustic she then appeared, in the beautiful maiden — the 
young lady of noble birth and distinguished air, whom he at present be- 
held. He added some flattering allusion to her family ; said that her 
father, the lord Polonius, was known to him by reputation, as a states- 
man whose services were of the highest value to his country ; and con- 
cluded by adroitly making it his request that she would never allude to 
any circumstances of their former meeting, as it was important to him, 
for reasons which he could not immediately explain, that he should not 
appear to be already known to her. 

Before Ophelia could well signify her acquiescence with his wish, 
Thyra reappeared 

Eric of Kronstein tarried not long after he had received the packet 
from her hands. Promising to deliver it faithfully and speedily, he took 
a graceful leave of the two young ladies, and withdrew. 

They both remained silent for a considerable space ; each occupied 
with her own thoughts. Then, Thyra, rousing herself from her reverie, 
said, ' : Forgive me, sweet friend, that I am such dull company — so ill 
fulfil my part of your hostess and entertainer. Come ; now for our first 
study of chess." 

The quiet chess-mornings, the brilliant social evenings, enjoyed with 
Thyra, made Ophelia's time speed pleasantly away ; while she could not 
but observe, that at all seasons, at all hours, Eric of Kronstein was ever 
the favorite guest of her friend. When others were excluded, he was 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 243 

admitted ; before others arrived, he was already there ; and after others 
had retired, he lingered ; and always, his advent and his stay were wel- 
come. By his adroit management, this was not markedly apparent to 
the world ; but to one in such close companionship as Ophelia, it could 
not escape notice. 

Once, — it was an evening when there was no assemblage of friends, 
the young ladies were deep in the absorbing interest of Thyra's favorite 
game, while the lord of Kronstein stood by. as was his frequent wont, 
leaning over the back of her chair, watching the lesson she gave, sug- 
gesting the best moves on either side, and aiding the fair teacher with 
his superior knowledge. * 

It grew late, and the game was not yet ended. Their excitement 
strengthened with every moment ; for in the interest of the trial of skill, 
Kronstein had insensibly come to prompt Ophelia's moves exclusively, 
so that, in fact, Tbjra and he were now playing against each other. Her 
cheeks were heated, her eyes sparkled, as a chess-player's will, when the 
antagonism is at its height. 

At this moment the lady Ophelia's coach, with Reynaldo, her father's 
confidential servant, and Guda, her own woman, to attend her home, were 
announced as having arrived. 

" Can it be so late ? I had no thought of the hour. My lord, how- 
ever unwillingly, you must be inhospitably bidden good-night. We must 
play "out the game to-morrow:" said Thyra. 

"We cannot leave it unfinished : sleep would be impossible, with the 
fate of that game undecided !" exclaimed Eric impetuously. " The lady 
Ophelia will give orders that the equipage shall wait." 

" My mother especially bade me return without delay, when she 
should send for me this evening ;" said Ophelia. " It is my father's in- 
tention to take me with him to the palace to-morrow, to present me to 
their majesties ; and he desired that I would be with him to-night, ere 
he retired to rest, that he might spe*ak some words of counsel he had to 
impress upon me. I may not tarry. Good night, Thyra. Good night, 
my lord." 

Thyra in returning her leave-taking, evidently expected that the lord 



244 ophelia ; 

of Kronstein would retire at the same time ; but he, declaring that the 
game of chess must be played out. in order to let Ophelia know its de- 
cision, on the morrow, threw himself into the chair she had just quitted, 
showing that he was resolved to stay'. 

Thyra in pretty, blushing confusion, partly eagerness and pleasure, 
partly hesitation, submitted to his arrangement, and reseated herself at 
the chess-table, bidding her friend be sure to let her see her immediately 
on her return from her first court-visit. 

In one of the large apartments of the palace, on the following day, sat 
a lady, surrroundecl by her attendant ladies, working at a tapestry-frame. 
In a deep embayed window, at some distance from her, stood a man, lean- 
ing just within the recess, regarding her earnestly from beneath his bent 
brows, and drooping lids. Not a bend of her handsome head, not an 
inclination of that polished throat, not a sweeping line of those white 
falling shoulders, not a curve of those voluptuously rounded arms, or a 
single movement of her ample but finely moulded figure, as it inclined 
over her work, escaped the eye so greedily noting every particular of her 
luxuriant beauty. Sensual admiration lurked in the looks with which 
he stealthily devoured her person, while all the while, his attention was 
apparently devoted to feeding and playing with a hawk, which sat upon 
an ornamented perch, in the recessed window where he leaned. 

The man, was Claudius, the king's brother. The lady, was queen 
G-ertrude. 

The weather had been unusually warm. The soft afternoon air crept 
in by the open windows ; and through the apartment there reigned the 
silence that grows with a sense of enjoyment and refreshment. It had 
for some time been preserved unbroken, save by the drawing through of 
the tapestry stitches, and the occasional restlessness of the hawk, peck- 
ing and biting at the teasing finger, when one of the attendant ladies 
exclaimed : ' : His majesty, the king ; madam." 

Gertrude rose to receive her royal husband. He came to tell her of 
letters that had arrived from Wittenberg ; bringing news of fresh acade- 
mic honors attained by their son, Hamlet ; one from himself, containing 
loving and duteous greetings to his parents, with tidings of his health 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 245 

and welfare ; and other despatches from the royal forces engaged in a 
northern warfare, which had terminated in conquest to Denmark. The 
king concluded, by saying that so much happy intelligence arriving on 
one day, deserved marking by some token of remembrance : and that he 
had brought one in the shape of a gemmed bracelet, which he prayed her 
to wear as the gift not only of a proud and happy father, and of a rejoic- 
ing monarch, but as that of a loving husband. As the king fondly leant 
over the beautiful arm presented' to him, that he might clasp the jewel 
upon it. a sharp inward groan burst from the lips of Claudius. 

" My brother !" exclaimed the king. " I did not perceive your pres- 
ence. Are you not well, my Claudius V he added, approaching the re- 
cess where he leaned. " That cry you could not suppress — your change 
of color — your face is pale, man ; you are in pain. I have more than 
once noted that ashy hue steal upon your face. Tell me, tell your bro- 
ther, what you ail." 

" An old wound, a hurt, — 'tis nothing ;" he answered, looking down. 
" Or if," and ho turned to the king, with a ghastly attempt to smile off 
his embarrassment, — "'tis but what reminds me that I have been a 
soldier, and long for an occasion to efface the old rankle with a few new 
scratches." 

" It has scarred over, ere properly healed. It must be looked to ;" 
said the king. 

" It will never heal ;." the other muttered, bitterly ; writhing, as he 
withdrew from the hand laid in brotherly kindness on his shoulder. 

' ; Our own leech shall examine it:" the king said, in his gentle but 
earnest manner. " You must not thus neglect health most dear to us." 

" Your grace shall pardon me, — no leechcraft may avail, — 'tis beyond 
the physician's skill, — I have learned to think it cannot be relieved. I 
will schonl myself to more patient, more silent, endurance. You shall 
hear no more such weak betrayals." 

" Sweet Gertrude, come hither : use you your womanly persuasion, 
with this refractory brother of ours, to have his hurt examined. I will 
not believe it beyond cure." 

As the queen advanced in obedience to her royal husband's bidding. 



246 ophelia ; 

and approached the spot where they stood, the king took her hand, and 
placing it on his brother's arm, said : " I expect no less from the gentle 
power of my Gertrude's words, which as her loving husband I am free 
to confess," he said, as he regarded her with an affectionate smile, ;; than 
that I shall find, on my return, they have won our brother to our wish. 
The summer afternoon wooes me forth, to walk awhile in mine orchard. 
Meantime, prosper you in your suit, my queen." 

He left them standing thus, beside each other; Gertrude's hand, 
where he had placed it, on his brother's arm. But when the king had 
left the apartment, she withdrew her hand, and retired a pace or two 
from her close vicinity to Claudius. He breathed hard, and there was 
almost a fierceness in the tone with which he uttered the words, " He 
bade you sue me, madam. Your suit ? Your will ? What have you 
to urge 1. Let me hear you plead. You plead to me ! But come, 
what is't ?" 

" Your wound, my lord. Consent that it shall be looked to ; there 
might be relief " 

He turned abruptly, and looked at her, as he said, "You would have 
it relieved — cured ?" 

" Assuredly, my good lord ; our leech is renowned in skill. He will, 
I doubt not " 

Again he interrupted her : " I speak not of the leech. But this old 
wound of mine — this deep-seated, scorching pain, here ; this corroding 
torture, ever gnawing in and in, till vitality itself is the prey, would you 
have it relieved, cured — if relief and cure were in your own gift?" 

He dropped his voice to a whisper, as he uttered the few last words ; 
though the whole conversation had taken place in a low tone, which 
could not reach the spot where the attendant ladies sat, round the tapes- 
try frame, at the farther end of the room. 

Gertrude said, in a manner as natural and unconcerned as she could 
make it, " Can you doubt it, my lord ?" 

Wilful misunderstanding sometimes betrays deepest consciousness. 

Claudius felt this, as he looked at the varying cheek which belied the 
assumed composure of manner; and saw that she knew his full meaning 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 247 

K Then pity me. This wound is probed to the quick, its festering smart 
is tented past concealment of the anguish I endure, when he makes me 
the witness of his licensed endearments ;" he hurried on, hissing, ser- 
pent-like, his torrent of scarce-suppressed passionate words. '• Can I 
calmly see him fondle that arm which I so many times have thirsted to 
press to these throbbing lips. A 'loving husband,' forsooth ! Why, his 
is a tame affection which can leave a wife, to go sleep in the shade of a 
cool orchard, while mine is a burning passion that consumes me. Ar- 
dor such as mine befits a ' loving husband ;' not the puling caresses of 
that dotard." 

'• My lord ! Remember you of whom you speak ? Of your brother, 
your king, my husband !" 

" Ay, madam — your husband — your ' loving husband !' " He ground 
his teeth, muttering a curse. " The very hem of your garment stirs me 
to more adoring warmth than he is capable of feeling, from the posses- 
sion of all that he hath in right of loving-husbandship ;" he presumed to 
add, as he clenched within his hand the end of a light drapery, which 
formed part of her attire. 

" You presume on my forbearance, my lord !" exclaimed the queen. 
" You cannot believe that I will listen longer to such rash speech." She 
would have withdrawn from the recessed window ; but perceiving that a 
portion of her robe was within his grasp, she feared lest the movement 
might attract the attention of her ladies to this circumstance, and so be- 
tray to them what was passing. A veriest trifle, such as this, will suffice 
to sway the conduct of a weak-souled woman. 

At this moment, an attendant entered to announce that the lord 
Polonius and his daughter, the lady Ophelia, craved audience of her 
majesty. 

" Conduct them to the presence-chamber ;" said the queen ; " I will 
receive them there." 

The edge of robing was still detained for an instant ; then she felt it 
suddenly released, and she was free to go. She moved away from the 
side of Claudius, without suffering her eyes to look towards him ; and, 
attended by her ladies, she left the apartment. 



248 ophelia ; 

As she proceeded along a gallery of the palace, on her way to the 
state-chamber, one of her train of ladies exclaimed, lifting the end of the 
embroidered drapery which floated from the queen's shoulders ; — '- See 
here, madam ; some treacherous doorway hath torn away a fragment 
from your majesty's attire ; the piece is fairly wrenched out. Alack ! 
the beauty of the robe is marred !" 

" Get other tires ready. I will change these anon, when my lord 
Polonius shall have taken leave ;" said queen Gertrude. " It must needs- 
have been some unheeded violence of a closing door, or other like acci 
dent. 'Tis no matter." 

" A passing sweet temper hath her majesty, to regard the wreck oi 
such embroidery as that, without so much as a fretful word ;" thought 
the lady-in-waiting. 

- And so, you found our queen no less gracious than I had painted 
her to you ;" said Thyra to Ophelia, when next the two friends sat to- 
gether, to discuss the grand event of court presentation. 

" She was, indeed, all that a young creature could desire, of consider- 
ate and encouraging ; she condescended to make it her express desire, 
that my father would bring me frequently to the palace in future." 

" And while thou hast been basking in the sunshine of royal smiles, 
and court favor, poor I have been yawning in the vapid atmosphere of 
foppery and folly, of coxcombry and pretension." 

;i Ah, I can tell, then, who hath been thy guest this morning. Thyra. 
Young Osric of Stolzberg: was't not? He hath never thy good word, 
I know." 

" Doth de deserve one? Is he not an insufferable froth ? An in- 
tolerable bubble of emptiness ? He thinks to play the accomplished 
gentleman by affecting modish phraseology, .and adopting fashionable 
whims of speech See how he minees his mother-tongue, in his mispro- 
nouncings. Ler me arrange your la'ship's men for you ; the knights, 
bishops, pones, and so. You shall take none other than the red. — a 
blushing foil to your la'ship's fingers. Your la'ship advances your king's 
pone? 'Tis well; the forward varlet suffers capture in a trice, for his 
presumption." 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 249 

"In 'a trace ! in a trace !' " interrupted Ophelia, laughing at her 
friends's imitation of the young lordling's manner. 

'• True ; 'in a trace, for his presumption.' This same game of chess 
your la'ship favors with so much of your la'ship's good laking, is exceed- 
ing daiuty sport; of ingenious devace. — very subject to contravance, — 
very suggestive to skill. — a most pleasing pastame. and of very excating 
encounter. But your la' ship is playing adly. Have a care ! 'Twill 
be a drone game !' and thus was my morning droned away, with his 
foolish buzzing, and wasplike impertinence." 

" Nay, he is but a butterfly. 'Tis thou who art waspish, Thyra, to 
be vexed with so harmless an insect. He does but flutter to and fro, 
displaying his gay painted coat, vainly, and vain ; but leaving no venom, 
inflicting no sting." 

'• But I tell thee, Ophelia, there is a sting in his presence, for me. 
My father hath, I know, set his heart on bringing about a match between 
this silly fly and myself. Now, though I do not believe that young 
Osric hath one thought of the kind, for all his hoverings round me, yet 
I fear lest an inkling of my father's wish should generate that which his 
own brain could scarce originate, — an idea ; and that idea, the one of 
wooing me to be his wife." 

" Thou dost not desire to be a wife, Thyra ?" 

" I say not that ;" said Thyra, blushing ; " but I desire not to be 
Osric's wife. I will tell thee honestly, dear girl. There is a man whose 
wife I could wish to be — whose wife I hope to be. A man whom I 
love, and who loves me ; a man whom it is an honor to love : and whose 
love it is a pride to have won. But this man cannot ask me to become 
his wife, until the redemption of his patrimony from mortgage, shall give 
him a right to claim me openly of my father ; and meantime, you cannot 
wonder that I should wish to keep all suitors at a distance, who might 
win his consent, before my lover himself dare come forward to seek it." 

c: And this lover is — '?" 

" No other than Eric of Kronstein. You surely must have guessed 
our attachment. You who have seen us so much together, dear friend?" 

" You forget that I have inexperienced eyes — that I am (as you call 



250 ophelia ; 

me yourself, dear Thyra) quite a novice in such matters ;" said the smi- 
ling Ophelia. 

li You are innocent simplicity itself, sweet friend ; as a girl of your 
years should be. Still, I thought you must have seen how it was with 
Eric and myself. We have exchanged hearts. We are plighted to each 
other by the most solemn vows. He has more than once told me he looks 
upon me as his affianced bride, — his wedded wife ; — I regard him as 
my husband, and feel that no power on earth should make me give my- 
self to any other than Eric of Kronstein. He tells me that less than 
half a year will see him reinstated in full possession of his estates, and 
that then he can ask me of my father with good hope of success. Until 
that period, therefore, 'tis of the utmost importance our secret should 
not transpire ; but — I could not have felt true to the confidence I have 
professed in my friend Ophelia had it longer been witheld from her.*' 

The young girls embraced lovingly and heartily, as Tbyra received 
the assurance that her secret should be faithfully preserved. 

Some months had elapsed since the last conversation. One evening 
as the friends sat together, the hours grew, and with them the impa- 
tience of Thyra, She was expecting lord Eric, who had promised to 
come ; but still the time for his appearance went by, and he came not. 
His visits now, were generally at a late hour ; but night drew on, and yet 
he came not. 

Ophelia's attendant arrived, with the coach £o fetch her home. And 
she left her friend pacing to and fro in the grounds, by starlight, unwil- 
ling to abandon the hope of his coming, even then. But as Ophelia 
reached the garden gate, and was about to step into her coach, she per- 
cieved Trasco, lord Eric's servant. He entered the grounds, and she 
could see him deliver a letter to her friend ; who placing it in her bo- 
som, hurried back to the house. 

Next morning, at an early hour. Polonius entered the apartment 
where his wife and daughter were, and by the ostentatious perturbation 
of his manner, evidently desired that they should ask what was the 
matter. The lady Aoudra dutifully did so. 

He told her that he had that moment received inteligence, of a cir- 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. , 251 

cumstance which had occasioned great consternation in certain quarters 
It was reported that lord Eric of Kronstein, whose affairs were long 
suspected to be in an embarrassed state, was discovered to be utterly 
ruined ; that he had accumulated debts of large amount, that he had 
gambled away his patrimonial estate, that he was not worth a farthing, 
and that in order to escape from the crowd of demands which pressed 
upon him, he had, last night, under favour of darkness, embarked in a 
vessel bound for the Archipelago. His creditors were outrageous ; and 
Polonius added, that he had reason to believe many gentlemen of high 
rank were among the most furious against him, on account of the nu- 
merous debts of honour which were thus left uncancelled. 

" I confess I cannot feel much concern for them ; they are 
probably, for the most part, little better than himself, — gamblers, and 
spendthrifts :" said Aoudra. 

' ; My dear, your virtue makes you hard upon fashionable follies;" 
said her husband. " Conscious of our own integrity, we should be len- 
ient to others more exposed to temptation. You can scarcely judge of 
those which beset young noblemen of spirit, and with means at their 
own disposal.'*' 

" But their spirit sometimes leads them to use means not at their own 
disposal. This lord Eric of Kronstein. when he staked at the gaming- 
table sums that were not in his rightful possession, was guilty of more 
than folly : he acted barely, unjustly. Besides, if my memory serve, I 
have heard this same lord of Kronstein accused of even worse vices than 
gambling. It is whispered that he is a libertine, — a practised seducer." 

" My good lady, how often must I caution you against giving credit 
to whispers, and hear-say. when they affect the character of those in high 
station. It is the vice of the envious, to slander those with whom they 
cannot aspire to be equal. Besides, you are too strict — too austere in 
your judgment of such matters. These are scarcely more than par- 
donable errors. — faults and follies to be expected in a handsome young 
fellow of his rank and age." 

• ; As I have understood, this Kronstein is not so very young. He has 
reached years that ought to be of discretion, very long since." 



252 ophelia ; 

"Ay, well, it may be so. I know not of my own personal knowledge. 
But I must not tarry here ; I must away to a privy-council meeting that 
sits this morning. His majesty laid his gracious commands on me to 
let him have, without fail, the help of this poor brain of mine. He is 
pleased to think it of some little avail in weighty questions that concern 
the state. Well, well ; it may be so. It may be so." 

Away hurried the courtier ; and the silence that ensued after his 
departure, was first broken, by Ophelia's asking her mother, "what did 
you mean by calling lord Eric of Kronstein a libertine? — a seducei 1 I 
never heard the words." 

The lady Aoudra looked at her daughter with a tender earnestness. 
" The better for mine innocent child, that she has never heard them, 
never known their meaning. Better still could she have remained in 
ignorance evermore of their evil import. But my Ophelia will soon be 
a woman ; she will mix with the world ; she will encounter the ill, as 
well as the good, that exists there ; she will find that men's natures are 
compounded of vice as of virtue : that they are capable of sinful and 
harmful deeds, as well as highest and most meritorious actions ; that 
they ofttimes work mischief instead of benefit; woe instead of weal; and 
that guile frequently lurks beneath the most specious seeming. To 
guard her against such sinister assailants, 'tis needful she should know 
the nature of her danger; a danger most imminent in the sphere to which 
she is destined. — a court." 

Gradually, then, and very needfully, did this tender mother lift the 
veil from her young daughter's mind. She told her how the selfishness 
of man, frequently under the pretence of love for his victim, sacrifices 
her innocence, blasts her good name, betrays her to shame and misery, 
and then leaves her to ruin — to utter perdition. " Disgrace, pollution, 
wreck of fair honor, peril of body and soul, follow in the track of such a 
villain's footsteps, wherever his fatal admiration chances to alight;" said 
Aoudra, vehemently. " And such deeds are called fashionable follies, 
and pardonable errors of youth ! The world is charitable in the allow- 
ances it makes for the worker of all this evil, though severely tyrannous 
to the injured party. But let the multitude be tolerant as it will to the 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 253 

titled libertine, I, for niy part, must ever hold deliberate seduction as 
one of the most heinous of crimes, and continue to manifest my abhor- 
rence of the seducer in proportion with my estimate of his guilt. I hold 
it to be a base guilt — a <?ruel guilt ; 'tis the advantage taken by know- 
ledge of ignorance, — by selfishness of generosity ; 'tis the infliction of 
deadly injury, beneath the mask of feigned love. 'Tis cowardice and 
treachery in one, and in the vilest form. Shame, double shame, on the 
betrayer rather than on the betrayed !" 

" But such a betrayer, — a libertine — a seducer, — you believe lord 
Eric of Kronstein to be." 

"Such I have heard him described; by one too, who thought she was 
doing him honour — fixing another feather in the cap of his gentlemanly 
qualifications — in ascribing to him such a character. A man of gallantry 
is, I believe, the polite term. A gallant action, truly, to win the trust 
and love of a poor maid, and then iequite her with destruction." 

" My poor friend ! And this is the man she deems worthy of all 
esteem and liking. To whom she has given her whole heart 1" exclaimed 
Ophelia, "'Twill be best kindness to her now, to reveal her secret to 
you my mother, that we may have your experience and counsel to aid 
her. Can we not save her from committing her fate irrecoverably to 
such a man's care ? But he is gone ! Still, the knowledge of his worth- 
lessness, will help to console her for his loss." 

Hastily she told her mother, of Thyra's attachment for Kronstein ; 
of all she knew of him herself; of her former meeting with him ; of his 
request that she would not revert to it ; and then, as the story of Jutha 
was unfolded, owing to the -recent better knowledge she had acquired, it 
struck herself with a new significance, while to the lady Aoudra it re- 
vealed a fearful tale of sorrow and wrong. 

,: I should have been with thee, my child. Told at the time, as it 
occurred, and as it then struck thee, to a mother's ear, all might have 
been well. A child should ever have at hand, her, to whom every scene, 
every event, together with the ideas they may engender, can be confided. 
But even yet, much mischief may be prevented. We will hasten to your 
friend Thyra — to warn her against the evils she can avoid ; to comfort 
her in the grief she will have to endure. 



254 ophelia ; 

On arriving at Cornelius's mansion, they found from her attendants, 
that the lady Thyra had not yet left her room. 

" She lies late, ordinarily, dear mother. Let us seek her in her cham- 
ber ; Her friend Ophelia is privileged to come to her rooms at all sea- 
sons, — even when she is. as now, a slug-a-bed. : ' 

She went at once to the sleeping apartment. She saw at a glance 
that Thyra was not lying there ; but as she was retiring, a something 
within the curtains, at the bed's foot, caught her eye. It was the figure 
of her friend, half hidden among them. Ophelia went gently forwards, 
to embrace her; but as she extended her arms to wrap them about Thy- 
ra's form, it swung heavily away from her, a mere heap of inanimate 
matter — an image, — a corse ! It was the dead body cf Thyra, hanging, 
where her own dsperate hand had stifled out life. Near to her was af- 
terwards found, a paper, with these words : — 

" My Father ! — forgive your lost child. Oh, lost, lost, indeed, — every 
way lost [ You destined my band to one whom I could not love. I 
pledged faith, affection, honour. — all, to one whom I loved only too well. 
He whom I so fatally trusted, has proved false. He fled. What is left me, 
but to die '? Deal indulgently by my memory, for the sake of what I 
was to you, when, — an innocent child at your knee, — your blessing rest- 
ed on my head. Let the thought of me, as I was then, be all that shall 
live in your remembrance of • Thyra." 

When Ophelia was lifted from the floor, where she had fallen pros- 
trate, she was in strong convulsions. The shock she had received, pro- 
duced a severe illness. For a long space she lay in the utmost danger, 
now wandering in delirium, now sunk into a heavy stupor. From one of 
these deep sleeps, she once awoke, stretching forth her hand feebly, and 
uttering a faint word or two. Her mother, who had never quitted her 
side, perceived the movement, and bent over her, to catch the sense of 
the murmured sound. 

"Is the king dead?" 

- I trust not, dear one. He is absent in Norway ; and the last des- 
patches brought intelligence of his safety." 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 255 

*• Me + hought I saw liim. dead :" said Oplielia. i: I have been dream- 
ing strangely." 

Her mother spoke soothingly : striving to compose and diver.t her 
attention from dwelling upon this. She smoothed and arranged the pil- 
low beneath the feverish head : ■ she put some cool beverage to the parch- 
ed lips, whispering the while, loving, cheerful words. But Ophelia re- 
verted to the theme: and her mother, finding her inclined to speak, and 
that she did so with none of the agitation which marked her words 
when she wandered, let her muse on. thus, half aloud. 

■• He seemed dead, as I saw him — though he moved before me. wa- 
ving his arm toward them. He pointed to them, as each appeared/' 

'• Of whom do you speak, dear child ?" 

'- Of those figures — those women. It was down by the brook — among 
the reeds — beneath the willow : — not the stream in the wood — but the 
brook yonder, which flows into the castle-moat. That solitary spot — all 
rush-grown, and shadowy — where the water creeps on sluggish and slow, 
margined- by rank grass, and river-weeds. — you remember ?" 

Her mother gave token of assent. 

" It was there she sat. — the first figure I saw. The night was ob- 
scure : the clouds scudded athwart the sky : — the moon's light struggled 
feebly through them ; there was a veil of haze upon tree, and shrub, and 
brook ; but I saw her plainly, and knew her at once, though her long hair 
fell drooping over her knees as she sat. I knew her, before she shook 
it back, and wrung her hands, and moaned over the little white face that 
lay upon her bosom. It was Jutha, mother !" 

The lady Aoudra would fain have prevented Ophelia from proceed- 
ing ; but she feared to do harm, by checking her in her evident desire to 
speak on. 

" I would have gone towards her. but my feet were rooted to the 
spot ; while, close behind me. there gradually shaped itself into substance 
a form that seemed to grow out of the shadowy night air. It became 
the distinct semblance of the king, as I saw him ride to the Norwegian 
wars, in coat of armour, and with truncheon in hand, not long since ; 
save, that his face, in lieu of being lighted with hope of conquest, life- 



256 ophelia ; 

like, and animated, was pale and all amort — ghastly, and set in death. 
He turned this wan visage full upon me, as he pointed to the figure of 
her who sat lamenting ; and then she vanished." 

" Dear Ophelia, thou shalt not recall these sad images ; let me tell 
thee, dear one, of thy father, who " 

'• But there were two others, I saw. One was my poor Thyra. I 
knew her by a terrible token." And Ophelia's voice became nearly ex- 
tinct, as she added :— " her livid throat, mother ; and there was a space 
between her feet and the ground, as she glided past me." 

A moment's pause ; and then Ophelia went on. 

" But she faded out of my ken, also, as the mailed figure again 
stretched forth his pointing hand. The wind sighed amid the reeds. 
The heads of nettles and long-purples were stirred by the night breeze, 
as it swept on mournfully. The air seemed laden with heavy sobbings. 
Then I saw one app'roach, whose face I could not see, and whose figure 
I knew not. She was clothed in white, all hung about with weeds and 
wild flowers ; and from among them stuck ends of straw, that the sha- 
dowy hands seemed to pluck and spurn at. The armed royalty waved 
sternly, but as if involuntarily, commanded by yet a higher power than 
his own will ; and then the white figure moved on, impelled towards the 
water. I saw her glide on, floating upon its surface ; I saw her dimly, 
among the silver-leaved branches of the drooping willow, as they waved 
around and above her, up-buoyed by her spreading white garments. 

The mother shuddered, as her eye fell upon the white night-gear of 
her child, telling the vision. But, at this moment, Polonius softly en- 
tered the room, having heard from G-uda, that his daughter had awaken- 
ed, better ; and that she was talking more collectedly, than she had done 
since her illness. He was soon busily engaged, in his half fussy, half 
kindly manner, chiding Aoudra for indulging Ophelia with too much li- 
cence of speech ; and making many remarks equally sapient and face- 
tious, on women's love of talk, their proneness for confabulation and 
gossip. 

" They will let each other talk — rather than not have talk toward," 
said he ; " but you, lady-wife, and you, my girl, must be patient yet 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 257 

,1 while, and let rest and perfect silence do their work. Quiet is restora- 
tive. Give it its full trial, 'beseech you." 

Thanks to Aoudra's tender nursing. Ophelia was restored to health. 
But a more severe blow, than any she had yet sustained, now awaited 
her. 

Death, which had spared herself, took her mother from her. It is 
true that the anguish of sudden separation was not theirs. For some 
time Aoudra lingered ; hers was a gradual decay, without pain, and with- 
out loss of faculty. She was able to give her child those counsels which 
should best protect her in her approaching entrance upon the world's 
experience : while the daughter was permitted the comfort of yielding 
the gentle ministerings — the loving tendance which best alleviate sick- 
ness and suffering. The anxious mother would often recur to the nature 
of the perils which most peculiarly threaten a young maiden introduced 
for the first time to the society of men of the world ~ men, her superiors 
in rank, as in artful experience ; and from the exercise of which art to 
her prejudice, no conscientious scruples would deter them. The mother 
thought it behoved her in an especial manner to guard Ophelia by this 
pre-knowledge of the dangers that would environ her, when left alone as 
she felt her child soon must be, with no female guidance, no other pro- 
tection than her own heart. And how was this heart to counsel her, 
were it not previously fortified and instructed by an understanding of 
its probable hazards, and of its best sources of defence against them % 
Aoudra deplored the necessity that existed for thus forestalling in her 
daughter's mind an acquaintance with the existence of vice ; but she felt 
it to be a necessity, and she did not shrink from the performance of her 
duty. She consoled herself, also, with the reflection that to learn the 
nature of vice is not to become acquainted with vice itself, or the prac- 
tice of vice : that to know of evil is not to know evil ; and that to per- 
ceive the perils of sin, is no allurement to sin. On the contrary she felt 
that a virtuous nature as instinctively shrinks from the pollution of 
?rime, as purity recoils from mingling with impurity, — there subsists 
mutual repugnance to combine. She therefore hesitated not to point 
out evil to her young daughter, as the surest means of averting it. 



258 ophelia ; 

" But not only, my child," Aoudra once said, " have I to caution you 
against the viciously-disposed among men. Even with their best simu- 
lation, there is something that betrays itself of such men's real propen- 
sities, to act as a warning and a repellant to one of pure inclinations. 
There is Claudius, the king's brother, for instance. — a licentious unscru- 
pulous man ; who, unless my instincts have played me false, and done 
him grievous injustice, would be restricted by no consideration of honour 
or duty in the pursuit of his desires. From such coarse homage as his, 
were it offered to her, my child's own delicacy and native good-feeling 
would at once prompt her to shrink. It is the good, the gentle, the re- 
fined in manner, the accomplished in speech and deportment, the culti- 
vated in imagination and intellect, against whom my daughter must also 
learn to guard her heart, lest such qualities betray her into a premature 
gift of that heart, fatal to her peace of mind. Tell me, my child, — it is 
to your own mother you are speaking, remember, — tell me if you know 
one thus distinguished." 

Ophelia was standing behind the large chair in which Aoudra reclin- 
ed, so that her face was unseen ; but as she leaned over, and kissed the 
wan cheek, her mother felt the glow she could not behold. 

" Since I have heard that his highness, the lord Hamlet, has returned 
from Wittenberg," said Aoudra, " I have always believed that 3 t ou, dear 
child, could not fail to note in him the maturity of those excellences, of 
which I remember he gave such fruitful token in earliest youth. Even 
then I could foresee what the future man would be, from the nobleness 
of nature, which shone conspicuous in every word and deed of the young 
prince. He was in truth a royal child — a noble boy ! And as he grew 
into manhood I still marked, on each of his successive returns to Elsi- 
nore, how worthily he fulfilled the promise of his boyhood. Such a mind 
and heart as his, seen as they are through those dark expressive eyes, — 
now full of intellectual fire, now softened by sensibility : — seen as they 
are through his most beautiful smile — a smile peculiarly his — so gentle, 
yet so arch, so pregnant of meaning, so persuasive in its sweet fascination 
— can scarcely fail of winning for him the favor of any woman whom he 
should seek to interest." 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 259 

;; But must the yielding him her favorable thoughts, be so fatal a 
surrender, for the woman whom he could love?" whispered Ophelia. 

Ci For her whom he could love. — truly, and in truth, love. — no, as- 
suredly no:" said Aoudra. " Were a woman well convinced that she 
had indeed become possessed of his true affection, she would but exchange 
a mutual treasure in the full bestowal of her heart's best feelings upon 
such a man as Hamlet. But let her be sure — entirely sure — of his love 
for her. ere she permit her fancy to engage itself too fondly with his 
image. Let her beware that his thought is as deeply fixed upon her. as 
hers could be upon him, ere she allow her own to occupy itself too curi- 
ously with his merits. Let her securely know that his heart is firm-set 
in constancy and truth towards her, ere she weakly suffer her imagina- 
tion to become enamoured of excellences only too well calculated to 
inspire a passion, which if hopeless, would be fatal to her peace of mind." 

Thus it came, that — from her mother's warning, at this time, as, from 
her father's and her brother's admonitions, at a subsequent period, — 
Ophelia had the perils which awaited her, in her future life at court, 
peculiarly impressed upon her mind. 

After the lady Aoudra's death, both the king and the queen made it 
their study by their tenderness and almost parental kindness of atten- 
tion to the motherless girl, to lighten the affliction of her loss. They 
were, in their behaviour to her, rather like affectionate and gracious 
friends, than her sovereigns. They showed b} r their eagerness to have 
her as much as possible with them, that they would fain act the part of 
loving relations by her ; and she soon learned to regard them with as 
fond an attachment. 

The prince Hamlet joined his royal parents in their attempt to soften 
the grief of Ophelia ; and in this gentle task, his own growing prefer- 
ence for her, gained strength and fixedness of purpose. His kindness 
and sympathy were enlisted in her behalf : his refined taste was attracted 
by her maiden beauty : "his delicacy of feeling taught him to delight in 
her innocence, her modesty, her retiring diffidence : his masculine intel- 
lect found repose in the contemplation of her artless mind, her untaught 
simplicity, her ingenuous character ; his manly soul dwelt with a kind 



260 ophelia ; 

of serene rapture on the sweet feminine softness of her nature. As time 
went on, tokens of his increasing regard, awoke a responsive feeling id 
her breast towards him. Bat while this fair flower of love was springing 
up between them, — near to it lurked in unsuspected rankness of growth, 
the foul unwholesome weed of a forbidden passion. 

It happened that a courser of matchless breed was sent from a dis- 
tant court, as a present, to that of Denmark. The king bestowed the 
gift on his son, Hamlet : and one morning, queen Gertrude, and Ophe- 
lia, were leaning from the balcony of a window over-looking the court- 
yard of the castle, that they might watch the prince, as he went through 
the varied paces, and tried the several merits, of the high-mettled horse. 
The interest of the sight absorbed them wholly ; their eyes were riveted 
upon the animated scene below, and they were unconscious that any one 
was in the room near to them, when Claudius stepped close to where the 
queen was bending forward ; and, standing just within the open window 
that led on to the balcony, a Tew paces behind her, he murmured : — 
" This hath slipped from your majesty's arm." She turned, and saw that 
he had just picked up from the floor, her bracelet, which he held towards 
her, but not within reach. 

" Will your grace receive it at my hand ?" he said, without tendering 
it any nearer ; but holding it as it were, in manner of a lure, that she 
might step within the room from the balcony. 

She did so, saying : — '•' I thank you, my lord, for the pains you have 
taken, that I should not lose what I prize so highly. 7 ' 

" You may requite them ;" he said. " Yonder silken trifle, — that 
heaving ribbon, blushing and fragrant, — a carnation set 'midst lilies," he 
continued, pointing to a crimson knot she wore upon her bosom, " shall 
be rich ransom for the jewel." 

" Were it not for the young girl so near to us, for whose innocent 
sake 1 indulge you with this lowered voice, my lord, you should not dare 
speak thus ;" said Gertrude, glancing towards the balcony, where she 
had left Ophelia. 

" I rejoice in her presence, or in aught else, that procures me this 



THE ROSE OF ELSINOItE. 261 

concession, — this chance. Could you know the fever of solicitude, with 
which I have watched for such a precious moment — could you know the 
anguish of seeing you ever near, yet ever removed from my " 

" My lord — I entreat — I insist ; no more !" interrupted the queen. 
" Give me the bracelet." 

"Not without its ransom. The last token was torn from you; this, 
I am resolved, shall be yielded of your own grace, accorded to me by 
your pity. That womanly heart, could it only know how sorely I need 
comfort, would not refuse me its compassion." 

He saw that she could not hear unmoved, an allusion to his unhap- 
piness, — offspring thougbit was, of a criminal passion. In such a woman 
as Gertrude, the sight of the influence her beauty had upon his senses, 
excited involuntary interest. There was that in her voluptuous nature, 
which responded instinctively to the luxurious ardour of the passion he 
had dared to conceive and avow. 'Instead of in her heart resenting, and 
by her manner repelling the boldness of his warmth, — instead of resist- 
ing its effect upon herself, and repressing its expression in him, she could 
not help yielding to the secret guilty pleasure of knowing it to exist. 
She allowed herself to contrast its unhallowed fire, with* the pure love of 
her wedded lord ; and, sensually judged, the one seemed superior in 
fervour to the other. 

The wife, who admits such thoughts, so judging, is already adulterate 
in spirit. 

Yet still her feeble soul struggled to preserve a show of virtuous in- 
dignation at the insult of his admiration. 

" Know you to whom you speak, my lord? Do you remember that 
I am a wife ?" she said, in reply to his last speech. 

" Too fatally, — and that you are not mine." He struck his forehead 
with his clenched hand. 

" Cease, sir; think that I am your brother's ;— -your queen. Y< u 
strain our patience." 

" And do you owe me no indemnity for that which I have shown, in 
my long-silent torture? Let me have the token I covet; or I keep the 
gem." 



262 OPHELIA J 

" You abuse your advantage, my lord." 

" Misery breeds selfishness ;" he replied. " I have abided too long 
in bitter, hopeless misery, to neglect the one poor gain within my power. 
Grant me the silken toy." 

" I dare not let my husband miss his gift from my arm ;" said the 
queen, hastily detaching the ribbon. 

" Neighboured as this has been, a thousand times more precious !" he 
exclaimed, as he snatched the breast-knot to his lips, and returned her 
the jewel. 

Within a week of that time, the realm of Denmark was thrown into 
dismay, by the sudden death of its monarch. The good king, — so it was 
reported, — while sleeping, as was his afternoon wont, in the orchard which 
formed part of the palace-grounds, had been stung by a serpent ; and, 
from the venom inflicted by the wound, he had instantly sickened and 
died. 

Ere the nation could recover from its consternation ; and while the 
rightful heir to the crown was plunged in filial grief, Claudius seized the 
crown, and caused himself to be proclaimed king. So artfully had all 
his plans been laid ; so resolutely and so promptly did he carry them 
all out, that he established his claims to the succession, or rather, fixed 
himself firmly in the possession of his usurped dominion, before the 
public voice, on behalf of its lawful prince, could be upraised to dispute 
his pretensions. Scarcely had this first bold step been securely taken, 
when it was followed up by the solemnity of coronation ; and shortly 
after, by the ceremonial of marriage between the reigning monarch and 
his late brother's widow. 

The habitual acquiescence with which royal proceedings are for the 
most part regarded by the populace, could hardly restrain the expressions 
of amazement, and dissatisfaction, which these events excited. But they 
occurred in such rapid succession, were carried with so high a hand, and 
were executed so peremptorily, that they passed without open murmurs, 
without attempted opposition. Moreover, the lavish splendour, with which 
the two rites of royal marriage and coronation were solemnized, had 



THE ROSE OF ELSINORE. 263 

their effect upon the vulgar mind, in causing them to be regarded with 
curiosity and interest, rather than with reprobation. Claudius knew 
the full advantage of investing his royal proceedings with the glare of 
pomp and ostentation, as a means of dazzling the public eye ; and he 
omitted no circumstance that could blind its judgment. He caused the 
rumour of the surpassing magnificence which was to mark the approach- 
ing ceremonies at the Danish court to be spread far and wide ; and, 
among the many attracted from a distance, to witness so gorgeous a 
scene, young Laertes, Ophelia's brother, came from France, that he 
might be present. 

He was pleased with .this opportunity for spending some time with a 
sister whom he so tenderly loved ; for though during their life they had 
been much separated, yet in those intervals that they had been together, 
he had learned to appreciate and love the modest worth, the affectionate 
nature of this gentle being. Besides, they had been in the habit of cor- 
responding with one another by letter : and thus the attachment between 
them had been maintained and cemented. To this means of intercourse, 
he reverted, when, — the regal pageant concluded, — Laertes prepared to 
return to France. As he bade her farewell, he prayed her to let no 
long time elarjse ere he should hear from her. 

And she, in her own quiet, though earnest way, in her own simple 
sincerity of manner, replied: — 

" Do you doubt that V 



u What to this was sequent thou know'st already." 



FINIS. 



TALE IX 

ROSALIND AND CELIA;. THE FRIENDS. 



" We still have slept together, 
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together; 
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, 
Still we went coupled, and inseparable." 

As you like it. 



"'Tis a pretty sight, neighbor, is't not?" 

This question was asked by one of two women, who stood together 
beside a cottage entrance, on the borders of a wood, enjoying an after- 
noon gossip. The speaker pointed towards the cottage window, upon 
which- the rays of the western sun were pouring their beams, tempered 
by the green leaves and boughs of the surrounding trees through which 
the light made its way. She who was addressed, advanced towards the 
casement, and looked in. Within the room, were two ladies, seated 
near the open window. One of them had her eyes fixed upon the other, 
on whose lap lay two infants, — a babe on either arm, both cherub faces 
closely pressed against her bosom, while both at once, drew thence their 
sweet milken meal. The eyes of the one lady expressed tenderest inte- 
rest in the gentle task she watched, mingled perhaps with a shadow of 
regret that it could not be hers to share ; while on the face of the lady 
who nursed the babes, there sat that divine expression, which no other 
earthly task inspires, of so pure, so holy, so benign a character. The 



270 

little -ones themselves looked steeped in that rosy. cosy, Cumbrous cod 
tent, betokening fulness of happiness. — or that happiness of fulness, 
which forms their summit of felicity. Their rounded dimpled limbs lay 
crossed and intertwined in loving co-mingling upon the cradle-lap ; the 
little fingers of a hand of each, lay curled and clasped together ; the 
same pretty murmurs of satisfaction, the same soft nestling warmth of 
cheeks, the same comfortably imbedded noses, the same lazily opened ? 
lazily closed, lazily raised, lazily drooped eye-lids, told how complete 
was the sympathy between the two happy little rogues in the enjoyment 
of their dual repast. 

The peasant woman who had peeped in, to look upon this picture, 
stepped back to the cottage entrance ; owning it was, in sooth, as her 
neighbour had said, 'a pretty sight.' And then, she went on to ask her 
how it happened, that these ladies and babes came to be her inmates. 

The two gossips sat down side by side, in the porch. The one nurs- 
ing her little girl, Audrey ; the other holding by the hand, her young 
son, William, a shy boy of about six years old ; while the former told 
how all had fallen out. She said that one evening lately, her husband, 
who was a wood-cutter, had been, as usual, hard at work in the forest 
close by, when he heard the sound of wheels on the road that threads 
its skirts. This road being little frequented by travellers, the good 
man had hurried to see whose could be the rare approach ; when what 
should he behold, but a grand coach, drawn by four horses, and sur- 
rounded by several horsemen, — attendants, and outriders, all betoken- 
ing the equipage and retinue of some great personage. Two gentlemen 
rode among the mounted horsemen ; they were leaning upon the coach- 
windows, and holding gay converse with the ladies seated withinside ; 
so that, as the cavalcade passed, it left a sound of laughter and good- 
humour behind it upon the air. But the last echo of the mirthful voices, 
and of the trampling horses, had scarce died away : the last glimpse of 
the bright housings, and trappings of the equipage, were still visible 
through the cloud of dust that environed and followed it; when the 
wood-cutter saw it come .to a sudden halt, and the whole retinue seemed 
thrown into confusion. It was evident that some accident had hap- 



THE FRIENDS. 27 1 

pened. The little-used forest-road was in so neglected a state, so full 
of deep ruts, so strewn with huge stones, so rugged and uneven, that 
when the wood-cutter reached the spot, he found that the springs of the 
coach had suddenly snapped, and that a wheel had come off. The vehi- 
cle lay on its side ; the horsemen were all dismounted ; the attendants 
hurrying to and fro. attempting to render what assistance they could, 
while the two gentlemen were anxiously endeavouring to extricate the 
ladies from the overturned coach. One of them had fainted, or was 
stunned, from the violence and suddenness with which she had been 
thrown forwards ; while the other was equally unable to move,- from a 
strain which her ankle had received, in trying to save the child on ner 
knee from falling. At length, however, both ladies were rescued from 
their perilous situation ; and the wood-cutter, proffering the shelter of 
his cottage as the nearest at hand, they were removed thither, borne 
carefully in their attendants' arms. The babes. — for in the coach, each 
lad}* had had a child upon her knee, — were unhurt. Thanks to the im- 
punity that most frequently attends the unresisting way in which baby 
muscles yield in tumbling about, and to the protection, regardless of 
self, which the muscles of those who hold children invariably and in- 
stinctively afford in the moment of danger, the little creatures had 
escaped all ill effects from their fall. 

Not so with the two mothers. The one lady had a severe sprain; 
while the other, on recovering from her swoon, found that the shock 
had banished from her bosom the power of yielding nourishment to her 
babe. The sense of her own deprivation in this calamity, was lost in 
anxiety for that of her child ; and her sole concern was how to find one 
who might replace herself in the sweet office, which she would so reluc- 
tantly, yet so joyfully, now see performed by another. There seemed a 
prospect of the poor lady's solicitude being relieved, when it was discover- 
ed that the wood-cutter's wife was herself also a nursing-mother ; but no 
sooner was this hope espied, than it failed them ; for nothing would in- 
duce the babe to partake with the infant rustic; the patrician child 
cried for food, but seemed to disdain it from a plebeian source. In the 
midst of her distress, the mother could scarcely help smiling to see the 



272 ROSALIND AND CKLIAJ 

pertinacious way in which the little one maintained its refusal ; whilo 
the other lady laughed outright to see. as she said, the insolence of 
birth, conquering even the pangs of hunger. — the proud stomach pre- 
vailing over the famishing one. But her own babe was taking its 
rightful repast in happy comfort — and she on a sudden bethought her 
that her sister's child should share with hers. She held out her arm to 
receive it ; and then, there was fresh amusement, to see with what a 
willing eagerness the saucy urchin partook of the kindred and aristo- 
cratic meal. 

These ladies were not, in fact, sisters, but the wives of two brothers. 
They were sisters in rank, and in affection. They were sister-duchesses, 
and sister-friends. The lady Aurelia was married to Gaston, the reign- 
ing duke of the neighbouring province ; and the lady Coralie to his bro- 
ther, duke Frederick. They had been spending some time with their 
husbands, at a beautiful country seat, called Beaulieu. belonging to duke 
Frederick, and were returning thence to the court residence, when their 
carriage was overturned. Beaulieu was situated on the other side of 
the forest, which was some twenty miles from the court ; and the ladies 
had suffered too severely from the accident, for them to be able to 
travel on. After seeing them safely established at the wood-cutter's 
cottage, therefore, the two gentlemen had proceeded on their journey, 
promising to return frequently during the interval which must elapse 
before the ladies and their babes could be removed. 

All this the good woman of the cottage told her neighbour, as they 
sat in the shady porch together ; the narrative being only now and then 
interrupted by the bashful advances of the boy William, towards estab- 
lishing an intimacy with the little Audrey ; which she returned, as she 
sat enthroned on her mother's lap, by graciously kicking him under the 
chin, slapping his face, tweaking his nose, tugging his hair, and occa- 
sionally thrusting her fingers into his eye. He seemed to take all in 
good part, however, and to receive her repulses as so many favours, 
holding out his broad cheeks for her to smack, placing his ears within 
pulling distance, submitting his locks to be wrenched out by handfuls, 
and meekly suffering her to claw and poke into his eyes as she listed. " Be 



THE FRIENDS. 273 

still. — be good, Audrey;" said her mother, drawing her back from an 
onslaught on William's mouth, which seemed made with a view to seize 
some of his teeth out, but which ended in such a vigorous clutch at his 
nether lip, that the imprint of her nails was left : " thou wilt anger him 
at last ; he's only too bearsome with thee. Ha' done, then !" 

u And so the worshipful ladies have bided with ye, ever since. Ni- 
cole ? And the one has gone on making twin sucking-babes of her own 
and her sister-in-law's beam 1 And how oft have ye seen his honor, the 
duke, and his honor, the duke's brother? To think of such right royal 
company in the forest — and in your own cottage, neighbour. Well, it's 
enow to make a poor bodj stark wood wi ; pride." 

c: But the wood-cutter's wife will ne'er be wood enow to be proud 
with an old friend and neighbour, let who will come to her poor house ;" 
said Audrey's mother ; "Nicole will always be glad to see her good 
friend and gossip, Jeannette, though all the dukes and duchesses in 
Christendom were to harbour beneath her roof-tree. But as for the two 
dukes, it must be owned, 'twixt you and me, there's a main difference 
between them." 

" Ay. How so V said Jeannette, with all a gossip's keenness. 

"Marry, the one's a pleasant-spoken, easy kind of man. He'll lean 
you against that porch, and talk by the score minutes together, just as 
natural as though he didn't know what a court meant, and had never 
answered to the name of duke no more than my good man. And to see 
him pat my little Audrey on the head ! — You'd think he was her own 
father. — Not a bit as if he was doing her an honor, — only a kindness. 
And then he's so fond of his own little one ; and so gentle to his wife. 
He might be a labourer instead of a lord, for good manners, — he has 
such a feeling heart, and such a pleasant way with him." 

" And the other, thou say'st, differs vastly from him V said Jean- 
nette. 

' ; Ay. in sooth, doth he," answered Nicole. " We have good cause to 
be joyful that my lord G-aston is duke over us, instead of his brother. 
Why, duke Frederick may be a very good gentleman for the court, and 
for all the grand folks there, and to live among them, and be liked by 



274 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

them ; but he's not what I call a pleasant man. He looks another way, 
while he talks t'ye ; he's thinking of aught else but your words, when 
you talk to him ; he asks questions without waiting for the answer. 
He's mighty polite, but never kind. He's too courtly with his wife to 
love her in truth ; and I'm much mistook, if she live not much in his 
thought as his lady, his duchess, and not by her christian name. I've a 
notion, that, to him, his brother is the reigning duke ; and even his own 
little daughter, is but his heiress. He's a lordly man, and I believe his 
thoughts are all lordly ; certain it is, that his ways and his manners are 
lordly, — passing rude and disagreeable." The wood-cutter's wife said 
this as if she had fixed the crowning stigma on cluke Frederick's be- 
haviour. She went on to say : — ; ' As for his wife, poor thing, the lady 
Coralie, she can't see a fault he hath, so blindly doth she affect him. 
"Well for her, poor soul ! When a husband's faults are past mending, a 
wife's eyes are best kept closed by a doting seal." 

" And it's acting no friendly part, to seek to remove it ;" said her 
neighbour, nodding her head. " I owe goody Theresa no thanks, but a 
grudge ever since, for showing me how ill William's father treated me, 
when he went and listed for a soldier, after drinking away all our poor 
havings at the ale-house. But G-od ye good even, neighbour Nicole. 
Come your ways, William, and leave hankering after little Audrey, 
who'll none of ye, ye see." 

For some time yet, Aurelia and Coralie continued to linger in the 
woodman's cottage, well-pleased with its pretty situation, its quiet, and 
its retirement, so well fitted to the loving domesticity of the task they 
had in hand. The pleasant rambles in the forest, when the ladies had 
regained strength to walk abroad ; the neatness of the rustic home- 
stead ; the purity of the air ; the dainty country diet, of dairy, garden, 
and orchard ; the absence of all restraint and ceremony in this sylvan 
life, made them willing to protract the period of their stay amid these 
simple pleasures ; while the visits of their husbands, who constantly 
repaired thither, prevented them from being deprived of congenial 
society. 

u For my part, dear sister," said Coralie to Aurelia one morning as 



THE FRIENDS. 275 

they sat beneath the shade of a spreading oak, with their babes, enjoy- 
ing the balmy freshness, " I could be well content to return never again 
to a court life, this sweet seclusion pleases me so well. Here, methinks, 
we could taste the pure delights of a golden age, when shepherds, and 
shepherdesses, rustic swains and foresters, careless maids and happy 
damsels, had the wide world — the world of Arcady — to themselves. 
Here, e'en the courtier may learn to rest his ambition, and perceive 
how vain an exchange his anxieties are for the peace of such a spot as 
this . Poor seem the fretful solicitude, the carking moil for place and 
honors, set against the open-air freedom, the liberty -of range, the 
breathing-space for heart and mind, that here may be his." 

" 'Tis woman's thought — a lowly-natured, unaspiring woman's fancy, 
sister mine," replied Aurelia. "What would manly opinion say to such 
a rural grave of all his darling hopes, his lofty aspirations, his projects 
of glory and renown ? Could a man be content, think you, to barter 
away all his projects of advancement in the stir and activity of life 
amid his fellow-men, for a dreaming existence 'neath bough and sky ? 
I'll ask my lord what he says to a shepherd's crook, or a forester's bow. 
in lieu of his ducal insignia, and thou shalt ask thy husband a like 
question." 

"For my brother Graston, I could well believe that his contemplative 
spirit might feel the repose of such a life of nature, nowise unsuited ; 
his philosophic temperament, his reflective habits, his pure tastes, would 
teach him to find delight in a recluse and pastoral existence ; but for 
my Frederick, I know not ; there is that in his ardent, high-reaching 
character, that might dispose him to scorn the inglorious ease, and tame 
inaction, as he would probably consider it, of forest retirement. And 
yet it is precisely on his account that I could wish this present peaceful 
life of ours to endure." 

" That is scarcely the wish of a duteous wife ; who has always hither- 
to perferred the fulfilment of her husband's will to that of her own. 
Why condemn Frederick to a crook, if he have a liking for a sword or 
a baton of office ?" said Aurelia laughing. 

Coralie attempted to respond to her sister's gaiety of manner, but 



276 ROSALIND AND CELIA ] 

there was involuntary sadness in the tone with which she said : — " Be- 
cause I sometimes have my fears, that his eagerness for such things will 
one time or other imperil him " 

" But a wife's jealousy for her husband's honor, will preserve her 
from a too cowardly alarm for his safety. She will learn to forget his 
danger in the prospect of his success." 

"It is because I am jealous for his honor, — his true honor, that I 
would have him achieve it without the hazard of things even more pre- 
cious. I mean not life and limb ; but conscience, self respect — they are 
sometimes risked in the desperate stake for honor — worldly honor. My 
Frederick is noble, virtuous. — but he hath ambition in that daring spirit 
of his ; and we know how, little by little, the towering growth of that 
passion o'ertops and crushes all else. In a court life is a perpetual re- 
currence of temptations to the aspiring nature ; and it is therefore I 
could wish, we were to dwell ever in this wood-land content." 

" You view things too seriously, dear sister ;" said Aureiia. " You 
are scarce recovered from your late weakness, sure, to yield thus to 
vague alarms. My brother Frederick's ambition will but secure for 
him and for you, honorable distinctions, worthy eminence : and your 
gentle monition ever at his side, will best preserve him from undue 
aims." 

' : It is because I too surely feel that I shall be early removed from 
his side, that I have allowed myself to breathe my anxieties for him to 
your sisterly ear, my Aureiia. Since I have begun to open my heart to 
you, let me do so entirely. Listen to me with calmness, for I am calm 
myself, even under the full conviction that I must soon leave you, my 
husband, my child. I commit them to your loving care, my sister. 
Well have you already proved how truly you can perform the part of 
mother to my babe — my little Celia. She will be no less a daughter to 
you, I know, I feel, than your own Rosalind. "Weep not, my beloved 
Aureiia, my sister ; could you know how resigned, how entirely satisfied 
my own heart is, in the comfort of entrusting her to you, you would 
feel no bitterer regret at this near prospect of my quitting life than 1 
myself do. What is there, after all, dear friend, to dismay me in the 



THE FRIENDS. 277 

thought of yielding earth, in the humble hope of Heaven ? My Aurelia, 
I am more than content, I am cheerful, I am happy. Look upon me, 
and see if my eyes confirm not my words." 

Through her tears, Aurelia looked into her sister's face, and beheld 
the truth of her soul, serene in its immortal trust. 

Ever after, the manner of the lady Coralie was so uniform in its 
composure, so constant in its unaffected cheerfulness, that her sister 
learned to think the prognostics of that morning were but a passing im- 
pression, from weakened health, and lowered spirits. She never allud- 
ed to the subject of their conversation : but seemed by the animation 
with which she entered into all the projects for enjoying their present 
life, and all the plans for their future existence, which Aurelia, Gaston, 
and Frederick, formed in the happy elation of youth and health, to 
express her entire sympathy, and unmisgiving concurrence. 

Sometimes in their forest-walks, her failing strength would betray that 
she was unequal to accompany them to such distances as their greater 
vigour led them to undertake ; but she would sit down and rest, or be- 
guile them into loitering, while she stole a moment's recline against a 
tree, and thus be enabled to proceed. Once they found a spacious cave, 
where the whole party stopped to repose, and to enjoy the beauty and 
delicious coolness of the spot. It was tapestried with moss ; and 
though lofty, completely shut in, and protected from the weather. It 
was so sheltered as to form a cool retreat in summer, while perfectly 
warm and snug in the winter. They were enchanted with the place ; 
and entertained many a gay proposal of coming to spend here a hermit 
old age, when the pomps and vanities of a court life should have lost 
their charms for them. Aurelia cast a furtive glance at her sister's 
countenance, to see whether it betrayed any symptom of her late secret 
avowal; but Coralie was on her guard, and no look revealed how un- 
shaken was her belief that she should never reach old age. 

But when, after spending still a few more happy days at the wood- 
man's cottage on the skirts of the forest of Arden, the two ladies accom- 
panied their husbands to their ducal home, the tokens of how fatally 
true had been her foresight respecting her own decline, were no longer 



278 ROSALIND AND CELTA ; 

to be concealed. The disease proclaimed itself unmistakeably, and 
before many weeks were gone, the lady Coralie had passed into eternal 
rest. 

At first, her husband, duke Frederick, felt her loss bitterly ; but he 
was, as his wife had truly known, an ambitious man. and in the ceaseless 
weaving and prosecution of his schemes for the advancing of his fortunes, 
and for the obtaining of preferment, he was not long in forgetting his 
grief. 

To his infant daughter, the lady Aurelia well replaced the mother she 
had lost. From the first tender office she had performed towards the 
little creature, when she had taken her with her own child, to her bosom, 
bestowing its gentle treasures of love and nourishment on both babes 
equally, she had known no difference in affection for either. Celia and 
Kosalind were alike dear to her. Had they been twin-born her own 
offspring, she could not have felt a more perfect and undivided fondness 
for them. She thought of them together, cherished them together, she 
nurtured them together, she held them in her arms together ; and when 
her arms no longer sufficed for their resting-place, she let them share 
the same cradle ; she let them bathe in the same bath : she clothed 
them, fed them, and bred them, alike and together. 

Between the little ones themselves, the affection grew to be as strong, 
and undivided, as that which the mother felt towards them. As they 
grew older, they learned the same lessons, and played at the same 
games ; they studied, as they sported — together. They not only cared 
nothing for their pleasures, if they were not mutual ; but they were also 
unsatisfied, unless their pains, their little vexatious, their youthful trou- 
bles, were borne together. It was almost droll to see the implicit way 
in which they made every event — whether welcome or no — a double one. 
They seemed to take it for granted, that nothing could befall either, 
solely. They appeared not to be able to comprehend anything happen- 
ing to each alone. All was to be between them, scrupulously apportion- 
ed to both, equally. If a gratification were accorded to one> she ex- 
pected a like favor to be bestowed upon the other. If a treat — even a 
reward, were granted to one, she stayed to enjoy it, and the other waited 



THE FRIENDS. 279 

as a matter of course, until a parallel indulgence came. Just so was it 
with a rebuke, or a punishment. If the one were reproved for an error, 
the other stood ready for correction at the same time. If the one 
incurred blame, the other seemed to think it her right to be censured 
likewise. 

Once Aurelia had occasion to find fault with her little girl, for some 
juvenile misdemeanour. But she had no sooner banished Rosalind into 
the corner, to stand there with her face to the wall, as a fitting shame 
and disgrace for such giddy behaviour as she had been guilty of, than 
Celia stepped up beside her, and demurely turned her face away too. 
Aurelia could not help smiling at the matter-of-course way in which it 
was done : and it amused her still more, to see, how, gradually, the com- 
panionship in exile prevented its being any punishment. For soon the 
arms stole round each other's neck ; the two little curly heads got close 
together, and there was such a whispering, and tittering, and under- 
toned sympathy between them, as totally to do away with the notion of 
penance. Aurelia put on as grave a countenance as she could, and told 
them to turn round, and look at her. The two little heads faced about ; 
but where was the contrition, the abashed regard, the disconcerted air 1 
There were two smiling-lipped, roguish-eyed, merry little wags as ever 
met a mother's attempted frown ; looking precisely as if there were no 
such things as faults, or punishments, or repentance in the world, — as if 
misdeeds were unheard of, penalties needless, and compunction out of 
the question. There was nothing for it, but to call them to her, bid 
them promise they would be good in future, while she gave them a hearty 
kiss of forgiveness a-piece. 

Another time, duke Frederick, who was in his way a fond father, but 
apt to be irascible, and capriciously severe; strict by fits and starts, 
but carelessly indulgent in general, took violent offence at some fancied 
disobedience of his little daughter's ; and he pronounced as her sentence, 
that she should be left at home, upon occasion of a forthcoming festival, 
to which the children had for some time looked forward. It was a grand 
entertainment to be given in honor of duke Gaston's birthday, in the 
pleasure-grounds of one of his nobles ; and, as an especial treat, the 



280 ROSALIND AND CELTA ; 

cliildren had been promised that they should be present. The disap- 
pointment was very great, when poor Celia found that his was to be her 
punishment ; and she could not help crying bitterly. Rosalind was of 
course keeping her company in her tears ; but she suddenly brightened 
up, and said she would devise such brave amusements for their day at 
home, that they should not need to regret the festival. 

" But you are not to stay at home. Rose ;" said Celia. " It is only 
I, whom my father has forbidden to go." 

" Not to stay at home ! Not forbidden to go ! We'll soon see that," 
exclaimed Rosalind, starting up from the low seat on which they had 
both been weeping side by side, and running off to seek her uncle. 

She came back, her face glowing, her voice trembling. " It's too bad ! 
It's cruel! He says I shall go, if it be only to make you feel your being 
left at home the more mortifying." 

" 0, but that it will not ;" replied Celia ; " the only thing that could 
make me glad, would be to know that you are enjoying the sight, though 
I can't." 

" But I shan't enjoy it — I can't enjoy it, without you, Celia. You 
know it well. Stay, I know !" she paused ; and clapped her hands. " I 
know how I'll do. Trust me, I'll manage." 

Her cousin tried to make her say farther ; but she only skipped about 
the room, and finally skipped out of it. A moment or two afterwards, 
Celia heard a crash ; and in a moment or two more, Rosalind came 
skipping back. 

" Huzza ! It's done ! Huzza !" 

u Rose ! What have you done ?" Celia went up to her young cousin, 
who was much excited, clasping her fingers tight in one another, then 
loosing them ; her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks flushed. As Celia 
questioned her, the colour subsided, and she became rather pale, but still 
looked eager and resolved. 

' ; Rose, dear Rose, is it possible you have broken that porcelain vase 
my father values so much ?" 

(i Yes, I threw it down. Was it not for lifting it off the marble ledge, 
contrary to his desire, that my uncle forbade you to go to the festival, 
Celia ?" 



THE FRIENDS. 281 

" It was. I did not know that he would not allow it to be touched ; 
but he thought I knew his orders were strict about that vase, and so he 
tt-as very angry when he found that I had taken it down." 

" Well then, he'll be still more angry, when he finds I've knocked it 
down. I'm sorry to have destroyed my uncle's vase, but I'm glad he'll 
be angry with me ; now he'll punish me as I wish ; he'll give me my own 
way about staying from the festival, at home with you." 

Celia looked rather frightened at this bold step ; and so to tell the 
truth, did Rosalind, when she came to think upon what she had done. 
But she had no wish to recall it ; and the two little girls felt more 
than ever bound to each- other, the one for what she had had the courage 
to dare on behalf of Celia, the other for what she owed to the daring of 
Rosalind. 

Finally, the good duke Gaston, by the timely gift of a rich vase, with 
which he replaced the broken one\ and by the good-humoured represent- 
ation which he made of the children's delinquency, obtained from his 
brother a remission of their sentence : and they both, after all. were 
permitted to go to the festival. 



While Rosalind and Celia were still children, the duchess Aurelia 
took them with her. one summer, on a visit to a friend of hers, the 
countess de Beaupre, who had been left a widow with a young son and 
daughter. They lived in a beautiful spot called La Vallee. It was 
situated at about the same distance from the court, as duke Frederick's 
country-seat of Beaulieu. but in quite another direction ; La Vallee 
lying to the north, and Beaulieu to the south of the ducal residence. 

In the society of her friend, the countess. Aurelia spent some very 
happy time ; while the two children made pleasant acquaintance and 
companionship with little Flora de Beaupre. the widow's daughter. They 
did not like Raoul, the son. He was a haughty, dictatorial boy : and 
treated the three girls with a sullen disdain, as his natural inferiors and 
understood vassals. He even seemed to entertain considerable scorn for 
his mother : a mild woman, who treated him as the heir of the family. 



232 

while he was yet a child : and regarded herself as merely an interlopei 
on the estate, — the dowager tenant, until such time as he should be oi 
age to claim his rights, his lawful inheritance. He was a complete feudai 
lord, in spirit as in fact : and beheld but serfs in all who surrounded 
him. He would kick and cane his men-servants ; and let his little sister 
kneel to fasten the clasp of his shoe. He would rave and swear at the 
women-domestics, and suffer his mother to set him a chair. He would 
take as a matter of course all waiting upon him. His mother might 
stand with his hat in her hand, his sister might run and fetch his fallen 
arrows, they might either, or both, be in constant attendance upon him, 
but he rarely stretched forth his hand to take what they held, until it 
perfectly suited his own convenience. Raoul, count de Beaupre, was 
his prevailing thought, as the impersonation of supreme authority ; and 
all created beings else, ranked as mere slaves, ministrant and subservient 
to his will. There was one person, the especial object of his tyranny, 
the recipient of all his domineering humours. This was a boy called 
Theodore, a poor relation — a cousin ; nay, some said that he might have 
claimed even nearer kindred to the late Count de Beaupre than that of 
nephew. Certain it is that his likeness to the young Flora, who was 
the image of her father, was singularly striking. He was nearly of her 
age — had the same delicately cut features, the same transparent com- 
plexion ; and were it not that her hair was golden, and his jet black, 
the same head and face seemed theirs. This girlish-looking child was 
a convenient toy for the young heir. Now his butt, now his plaything ; 
now his lackey, now his laughing-stock ; but in all characters, buffeted, 
jeered, cuffed, mocked, and ill-used as the caprice of the young lord of 
La Vallee might choose to dictate. No one seemed to think it hard or 
strange — not even the victim himself ; it was so thoroughly an under-, 
stood thing, that submission was the only thing with which the insolence 
and tyranny of Kaoul de Beaupre were to be received. 

Even little Flora, the only one in the chateau of la Yallee who 
possessed any thing approaching to spirit, never dared remonstrate with 
her lordly young brother on his behaviour to their cousin ; she merely 
contented herself with showing the boy, in her own person, all the kind- 



THE FRIENDS. 283 

ness which might compensate for the treatment he received at the hands 
of Raoul. The affection thus engendered between the two younger 
children, became a means of their better enduring the despotism of the 
elder. Theodore, in his gratitude to Flora, learned to bear her broth- 
er's insults for her sake ; while she forgot her own contemptuous usage 
in sympathy with the harshness and ignominy to which this boy was 
subjected. 

Altogether, Rosalind and Celia felt it a relief, when the period of 
their return home arrived ; for the conduct of the heir, which from daily 
habit was scarcely felt by the inmates of La Vallee, oppressed them 
with a sense of cruelty and malice constantly exercised against un- 
offenders in word or deed. Yv r ith the exception of Flora, between whom 
and themselves there had arisen a strong liking, they regretted nothing 
there ; but the mothers had promised that there might be a correspon- 
dence kept up between the little* girls by letter, which would furnish 
good exercise for their faculties, as well as a means of innocent enter- 
tainment. The duchess Aurelia, with her usual eagerness to promote 
the happiness of her two little ones, said that a messenger should be 
appointed to carry the epistles to and fro between them and their young 
friend. 

Some years passed by in happy study, in increasing improvement : 
in ever-growing, ever-strengthening attachment between the two cousin- 
friends ; but just when they reached a time of life, most, perhaps, need- 
ing the gentle presence and guidance of a mother, Aurelia, that tender 
monitress, that indulgent guardian, was removed from them by death. 
Her loss made one more strong bond of union between the two girls ; 
it was a mutual bereavement. It was a mutual source of regret, as of 
consoling thought; they both knew her worth, they could sorrow toge- 
ther, as they could comfort each other, calling to mind her excellences, 
and promising that her image should abide evermore with them, a vir- 
tuous, a strengthening, a holy memory. 

Duke Gaston, always of a quiet, passive disposition, sank into deep 
despondency on the death of his wife. Even the love of his daughter 
Rosalind, had no power to arouse him from the stupor of grief to which 



284 

he yielded. He shrank from all society ; and hers seemed especially 
painful to him. He shut himself up in his study, to brood alone. In 
the hope of giving his affliction its own chosen way to seek healing, she 
yielded to her uncle's wish that she should accompany his daughter Celia 
to Beaulieu for a time. Here, in country retirement, amid the beautiful 
scenes of all restoring Nature, the two young ladies gradually recovered 
their serenity, and eventually, the blithe spirits proper to their time of 
life, and to their happy temperament in particular. 

Through the spacious grounds of Beaulieu, the two cousins would 
wander arm-in-arm, indulging many a pleasant fancy, weaving many a 
bright romance, picturing all kinds of glowing visions. They peopled 
the glades with dryad shapes, and old pagan stories. For them fauns 
and satyrs lurked amid the trees, and peeped from thicket, and copse, 
and bosky grove ; for them, the panting Syrinx rustled and cowered 
among the reeds, shrinking from him who drew but mournful music 
where his lips had sought warmer response ; for them the margins of 
cool brooks were haunted with the smooth white forms of bathing nymphs, 
or long-tressed naiads ; for them the fresh morning air rang with the 
shrill horns and baying hounds of Dian, and her huntress train ; for them 
the rills and fountains murmured echoes of the fates of Arethusa, of 
Acis, and of fair Cyane : for them, thatched cottages were Baucis and 
Philemon roofs, sheltering highest Jove in his wanderings j for them, 
each scene had its mythical as well as actual significance, — a classic grace, 
no less than an intrinsic beauty. Their reading had been such as high- 
horn ladies, in those days, took delight in ; and their thoughts and as- 
sociations were naturally thus coloured. The lore of the poets, the 
history of old Greece and Rome, the traditions of by-gone ages, with 
their creeds of imagery and imagination, had stored their miiids with 
ideas which refined and elevated each object in existence. To them 
all the realities of life possessed the added charm of ideality. They 
viewed even Nature herself through the purple light of a poetic medium. 

After a season, however, the desire of Rosalind to see whether her 
presence might not now conduce to her father's happiness, led her to 
urge her cousin, that they should quit the delights of Beaulieu, and return 



THE FRIENDS. 2S5 

to what she hoped might prove the duty awaiting her at court. Celia 
ever one in thought with Rosalind, as soon as that thought found utter- 
ance, agreed. Oa the day appointed, just as they were setting out. they 
received a letter from Flora de Beaupre. in which she confided to them 
her anxiety respecting her cousin. Theodore, who was suddenly missing 
from La Vallee. " My brother Raoul is much incensed at his flight ;" 
thus concluded the letter: "he has spared no pains to obtain traces of 
the fugitive : but as yet none have reached us. Since our dear mother's 
death. I have observed a kind of ill-smothered ire take the place of the 
old submissive patience with which my poor cousin used to bear the 
slights and harsh treatment of his lot. I tried to preserve forbearance 
between them as long as possible. I endeavoured to moderate in one, 
his exercise of power, and to maintain in the other, his passive endurance 
of evils he could not avoid. Bat it seems that this endurance was at 
length taxed too far. He must hare resolved to fly from a tyranny, from 
which there was no other escape : and is doubtless, by this time, equally 
beyond the reach of Raouhs vengeance, and of my regret. Poor boy ! 
Dear, dear Theodore ! Shall we ever see each other again ? That you 
will pity me. I know, dear friends ; for you knew his gentle qualities. 
"What he was. as a mere child, when we were all children together, he has 
grown up still to be. — good, uncomplaining, full of humility, and all 
kindliness." 

- Poor Theodore !" echoed Celia as she closed the letter. '•• Ay. he 
was ever, only too full of humility, too kindly, too gentle. Had it been 
my lot to dwell within the reach of such a tyrant arm as the odious 
Piaoul's. I should never have submitted : I should either have faced my 
injuries, turned upon them, and resented them, or shown them a fair pair 
of heels long ago. as he has done at length" 

• ; And. poor Flora. I say. as well as poor Theodore ! ;; said Rosalind, 
•'•How deeply the affectionate girl regrets him." 

-Ay: perchance too deeply." said Celia. '■' Dost not think that it 
may be. Flora regrets more than a cousin, in Theodore? Is't not too 
possible, that amidst ail that sympathy, and interest she felt for him 
while beneath her brutal brother's power, and with her constant care to 



286 

screen him from its worst inflictions, a warmer liking than cousin-love 
may have sprung up in her heart? If so, ' poor Flora,' indeed !" 

" I do not believe it ;" said Rosalind. " She speaks not of him in 
terms such as women use, when naming him they love. What woman 
ever called her lover \ Poor boy !' No, no, trust me ; Flora regrets 
Theodore with but honest affection ; with but simple cousin-love. ' 

" True, those words ' poor boy ' warrant Flora's heart free from all 
but cousin-love^ as thou say'st, Rose. But tell me what is there, after 
all, truer, stronger, or warmer than this same cousin-love ;" said Celia. 
' ; I verily think. I shall never love lover with any love half so worth 
having, as that with which I love thee, coz." 

'■ But we are more than cousins, we are friends, thou know'st," said 
Rosalind. " Relationship hath some delicate natural links of its own, 
doubtless ; but there is a voluntary affiancing of two kindred beings, — 
kindred in more than blood, kindred in spirit, in heart, in mind, in soul, 
— that welds them together into one. All the sledge-hammers of the 
world, with their weight of envy, malice, or detraction brought to the 
assail, would fail in sundering such steeled affection. They but the 
more finely temper it. The materials would give way, ere that which 
incorporates them ; the two hearts would break, sooner than the bond 
which unites them." 

The two ladies were pursuing their way homeward, as they conversed 
thus. The weather was so very lovely, their road, skirting the forest, 
so beautiful, that they preferred the freedom of horseback to the con- 
finement of a coach. They accordingly rode, attended by a proper 
retinue, such as beseemed their rank. 

The afternoon sun enriched the scene with its warm glow of beauty, 
while the shade of the trees, which fringed their road on one side, form- 
ed a welcome screen from its ardour. They paced on easily, walking 
their horses, and talking to each other ; when they neared a spot they 
had often stopped to admire. It was a kind of well, or rude stone 
fountain, celebrated for the sparkling purity of its waters, which flowed 
from a moss-grown rocky recess ; it was situated on a grassy slope, was 
bowered in with festoons of brambles, wild-rose, and woodbine, and 
over-arched by a thick umbrage of tall and spreading trees. 



THE FRIENDS. 287 

As the ladies approached, they perceived a figure sitting by the side 
of the well. It was that of a stripling. His head rested on the stone 
brink ; his limbs were stretched forth in the attitude of thorough wea- 
riness ; his dress and shoes were covered with dust ; his whole appear- 
ance betokened that he had come far, and that he slept the sound sleep 
of fatigue. The trampling of the horses on the turf failed to arouse 
him ; and he stirred not from his position. His face was partly hidden 
upon his folded arms, as he leaned against the well-side ; but one of the 
grooms, dismounting, to obtain a cup of the fresh fountain water for his 
young mistress, touched the lad on the arm, and asked him if he had no 
better manners than to lie lounging there in the presence of ladies ; 
and then the countenance revealed to view, shone with good-humour, 
though he affected to be angry at being disturbed. 

" My lady may desire a draught of cold water," he said, " but her 
need must be great, 'an it equal mine for rest ; my weariness against 
her thirst, for any sum thou lik'st to name. I fear me, though, the 
stakes would be all on one side, like an ill-built paling ; for my pocket 
is free from trouble, — it hath not a cross to bear." 

" I am sorry thou hast been awakened on my account, good friend ;" 
said Celia. " Sweet rest is too precious to be interrupted for an idle 
wish, that scarce amounted to a want. Besides, the cup could have been 
filled without disturbing thee." 

' ; A lady's caprice has broken many a rest, madam, ere now ;" re- 
turned the youth, glancing up at her with a merry look, while he remov- 
ed the cap from his head, as he stood before her to reply to her kind 
voice and words. " But in truth, there are some faces well worth losing 
sleep for ; and had I not awakened to look upon the one I now see, I 
had lost a sight better than twenty such naps — sweetened though mine 
was ; by hunger and way-faring." 

" Thou hast walked a long distance?" asked Celia. 

"All the way from Chateau Fadasse, madam, which lies some score 
miles eastward of this. To tell your ladyship heaven's truth, — and 
there is that in you which forbids a man to think of uttering aught 
else. — I ran away from that very Chateau, no longer ago than this 
morning.' 



288 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

"Chateau Fadasse ?" replied Celia, musingly. "I have heard my 
father speak of a baron of that name." 

" Ay. madam ; the same, doubtless," replied the youth. " I was born 
there : and bred there, if that may be called breeding, which was rather 
a breaking-in to live upon ill-usage and broken victuals. In the baron's 
household, my father filled the office of jester until Death called him to 
a better place, promoting him from the Fadasse service to that of the 
King of Terrors. Though service be no inheritance, yet I succeeded 
to my father's, and served the baron for a fool, — as I was, staying so 
long to be made a fool of, and to be kicked and cudgeled like an ass." 

" A breaking-in, truly : one less gentle than befalls a horse ;" said 
Celia. 

" Not one of the baron's stud but was envied by his jester, madam ; 
they were snugly stalled, full fed. and caressed ; while the only privi- 
lege I enjoyed, was, that the chevalier, the young heir of the house, 
made it his sport to treat me like a kind of human foot-ball, on which 
to exercise the toe of his ill-temper. At last I bethought me that I 
might take it as a hint that I was kicked out ; and so set forth with a 
broad prospect before me, if not a fair one, — the wide world." 

" And now thou hast no home, my poor friend?" 

" If your ladyship call me so, or, better still, be a friend to me, then 
have I no great need to bewail, what is, after all, no great loss. To 
draw upon those few drops which every man hath a scant store of from 
his mother, and to waste them in bewailing a home such as that — which 
was no home, — but rather a house of bondage to me, is extravagance 
and spilth. — a casting away of good eye-water." 

" But hast thou nowhere to lay thy head?" pursued she, amused with 
his replies. 

" No other pillow than holy Jacob's, madam, — a stone. But that 
which brought a dream of angels to a patriarch wanderer, may well 
serve an erring youth like myself. Nor no snugger hangings than the 
blue canopy yonder ; but many a better man than I, hath had as spa- 
cious a bed-tester." 

" Thou hast not wherewithal to eat a meal, hast thou ?." she asked. 



THE FRIENDS. 289 

:c To say sooth, madam, no daintier food than hog-fare, — beechmast 
and acorns; with mayhap, hips and haws, and such odd bird-berries: but 
the hedge and the brook have furnished meat and drink, ere now, to 
famishing scholars, why not to a starving fool? The teeth of youth 
are sharp and sound, as its appetite is sharp set ; and these are main 
helps to digestion. Nothing like the animal spirits and light heart of 
under-twenty for imparting a relish, let the victual be ever so tough 
and unsavoury. Hardest fare comes scarce amiss, to years not yet of 
discretion." 

" I like this fellow's spirit, well, Rose ;" said Celia turning to her 
cousin! " 'tis a cheerful spirit; one that will take him his bites from 
the cherry-cheeked side of the apple, through life. What say'st thou ? 
Shall we bid him come with us ? We'll provide him a home ; and he 
shall supply us with mirth." 

"A fair bargain, and a kindly; thou'lt do well to strike it, coz." 

"Art thou content to follow me?" said Celia, again addressing him. 

" Ay, lady. Find but a stepping-stone beyond this round, slippery 
ball, the earth ; an' vou set your foot on it, mine shall scramble after. 
There is something in that look, which puts willingness, e'en impossible 
feats into heart and sinews of him that should be thy follower." 

"Then, mount; and come with me. Gaspard, bring forward the 
sumpter-mule, that this lad may ride with us. And give him a ration 
from our store ; for it's ill beginning new service by fasting." 

"And my stomach hath struck a hollow sound for every hour I've 
spent in the forest since I entered it ; which was at daybreak this morn- 
ing. I thank your ladyship for the timely thought." 

" And now tell me thy name, good fellow ;" said Celia, as he fell in 
with the cavalcade, a little to the rear of her side. 

" I was called cub, lout, hound, or cur, idle varlet, lazy swine, and 
such like, for the most part : though, in good sooth, none of them was 
my rightful style and title, as your ladyship's discernment will have 
already told you. But, truly, I care not now to be known by the name 
I bore when blows and privation were my daily having. Yonder well- 
brink, where I rested my head, being the stone on which turned my 



290 



ROSALIND AND CELIA ] 



good fortune. I'll call myself, henceforth, no other than Touchstone. 
'Tis the name given me by a fine brain of invention ; and that may 
e'en stand in lieu of godfather and godmother, gossipry, and apostle- 
spoons." 

i: If it be the saving of apostle-spoons, it may yet need thee a long 
spoon, in the close quarters to which, through lack of a christian name, 
thou may'st be brought with the Prince of Darkness. Thou know'st 
the old proverb." 

" Marry, the meeting with yourself, lady, is the silver spoon in the 
mouth of my new-born fate. I'll look to have no other." 

" Nay, I think thou'lt furnish the spoon thyself. Thy pate will be 
thine own wooden ladle." 

" It shall furnish my lady with a plentiful dish of merry conceits, 
skimming for her the froth of folly, and the cream of jesting. Thus the 
fool's treen spoon may indeed help himself, while it serves his mistress. 
It keeps his own heart light, and her in good humour." 

' ; To be kept well stored in good humour, is both her benefit and 
his :" said Rosalind. ' ; See thou that thy humour be good, fool, and I'll 
ensure thee thy mistress's good-humour." 



On their arrival at the court, Rosalind's first care was to enquire for 
her father. She was met by the young lord Amiens : who was not only 
by blood related 'but by affection deeply attached to duke G-aston. He 
told her that the duke still kept himself in strict retirement : that he 
evinced the same disinclination to see any one. or to take interest in the 
active concerns of life. He mentioned that even a visit from a very 
dear old friend of the duke's, had failed to rouse him from his profound 
melancholy, though, (Amiens added) he believed this friend had spoken 
very urgently. The friend was a country gentleman, a worthy knight, 
sir Rowland de Bois ; and from the well-known attachment that subsist- 
ed between him and the duke, it had been hoped, that his remonstrance 
would have produced a salutary effect. The good knight had left his 
country mansion, and come up to the court, where he had not been for 



THE FRIENDS. 291 

some years, expressly to see his sorrowing friend, when he learned into 
how baneful a despondency he had sunk. In the private interview which 
took place between them, sir Rowland left no argument unurged that 
his honest heart could devise as likely to move the duke. He besought 
him to remember his duty to his people, who could not fail to miss his 
wise and temperate government, were this ceasing to take part in public 
affairs prolonged. He implored him to beware, lest in yielding so utter- 
ly to his grief, he might not be guilty of a weakness, a selfishness un- 
worthy a ruler who had the happiness of others to consider : of others 
whose welfare depended on. and had been confided to. his paternal care, 
as their lawful sovereign. He even hinted to him that advantage might 
be taken of his absence, while preserving so complete a seclusion and 
inaction ; that a sinister influence might be at work to dispossess him 
of his dukedom : that his own deed would allow conspiracy and enmity 
to effect his ruin ; and that, in short, he more than suspected much evil 
had already been the result of this protracted seclusion, by the scope 
and opportunity it afforded to unscrupulous ambition in attempting to 
usurp his rights. Duke G-aston had replied to this, that he knew his old 
friend's warmth of zeal: and however he might feel bound in gratitude 
to the love from which it originated, yet that he knew too well the strong 
prejudices which it engendered, to believe there was any ground of fear 
from the quarter to which sir Rowland's hints pointed. He said he 
knew that they referred to his brother Frederick ; that the knight had 
always avowed doubts of his integrity : but that he "could not allow 
himself to entertain unworthy suGpicions of one whom he had known 
from childhood. The knight murmured something about " lived with, 
but not known ;" and of " a transparent nature fancying others as clear 
as itself, and believing that it can see through a dark one." But he 
went on to say, that there was still one other consideration which ought 
to have weight with his friend Gaston : and that was the happiness of 
his young daughter, Rosalind, which would be seriously affected by 
seeing that of her father irretrievably lost. 

The father said it was among his few comforts, to know that the love 
which subsisted between his child and her cousin Celia, prevented her 



292 

happiness from beeing too fatally involved in his ; and to know that this 
innocent affection preserved her from sharing, in all its poignancy, the 
affliction which overwhelmed himself. 

" But let it not destroy you, my friend ;" said the hearty old knight 
in conclusion. " Be your own noble self. Strive against this poisonous 
sorrow. Its indulgence is a wrong to yourself, and to your people, your 
friends, your child, and even to her whom you mourn. I loved my own 
wife deeply and truly,— she brought me three fair sons, — and when she 
left me and them upon earth, I felt that what I could best do to deserve 
joining her in heaven hereafter, was to be the best father I could to her 
boys." 

Duke Gaston wrung his old friend's hand, and in a broken voice pro- 
mised to think of his words. They parted; and Amiens said that since 
sir Rowland's visit, it had been touching to see the ineffectual efforts 
made by his unhappy cousin to banish at least the external evidence of 
his grief. He said that the duke's endeavour to assume cheerfulness 
was even more moving than his usual self-abandonment to depression. 
The one was natural, and had its own sad solace ; but the other was 
forced, and most painful to witness. The young man added, that his 
grace had signified his willingness to listen, when he offered, as he had 
so frequently done before in vain, to sing him some of the old airs once 
loved so well ; but that the attempt had been followed by such a burst 
of anguish, that he had never since ventured to repeat it. Rosalind, 
with tears, thanked Amiens for his tender sympathy and care towards 
her father ; and felt in her heart grateful, not envious, that this young 
man's presence was an accepted comfort, where her own was too keenly 
associated with her mother's image, to render it endurable. 

When he had seen her restored to composure, he left her to return 
to the duke. 

As Amiens retired, Touchstone, willing to divert Rosalind's thoughts 
by a sally which he saw she could now bear, said : — " That gentleman 
hath a warbling face. I take it, his voice is sweeter to sing, than his wit 
is keen to speak." 

u He hath a true heart, fellow ; which is better than either sweet 



the friends! 293 

voice, or keen wit ;" replied she. ' : He is a loyal and a loving friend to 
my dear father : let that ensure him thy respect." 

" I cannot fail in it to whomsoever your ladyship favors ; which 
will answer for the large amount I mean henceforth to pay to myself. — - 
your fortunate, though unworthy servant. Self-respect is noble, and 
now I am to be a courtier, and to live among nobles. I intend laying up 
a store." 

' : Courtiers live by paying respect to others, fool, not by cultivating 
self-respect. They too often lose it altogether, in seeming to pay a ser- 
vile homage to those who have no superior claim to regard, beyond the 
power of bestowing a ribbon or a vacant garter." 

" Garters and ribbons are pretty knacks enough, in their way: but 
they show paltrily. methinks. against a few sterling things we wot of :" 
said Touchstone. " I cannot think the gewgaws are worth deforming 
soul as well as body. A cringing spirit, a perpetual stoop in the shoul- 
ders, an ever-crooked back and knee, are scarce compensated by a star 
on the breast. The power to hold up your head, and look every man 
straight in the face. I hold to be the higher order of privilege." 

Here, the princesses' gentlewoman. Hesperia, entering to offer her 
services, the two- ladies retired to their room, to take off their riding- 
gear. 

The next letter from Flora deBeaupre not only confirmed her young 
friends in their conviction that she regretted Theodore as her cousin, the 
companion of her childhood, the object of her sympathy and pity, merely. 
but it also discovered many other matters. She told them that the 
fugitive had contrived to send her secret intelligence of his welfare. 
That he had resolved upon finding his way to Rome, in order to satisfy 
his ardent thirst to behold the glories of Art there treasured : and that 
he was not without hope of being able, by diligent study and perseve- 
rance, to win for himself an honorable career as an artist. 

Theodore had. from infancy, manifested extraordinary talent for 
limning natural objects ; and though this gift had had little opportunity 
for developing itself under the ruffian treatment of Raoul. yet it had been 



294 

secretly indulged ; as the walls of his own narrow chamber could testify, 
being covered with myriads of rudely-scrawled sketches and designs. 
This had inspired the thought of earning an independence, could he but 
once free himself from the thraldom of his life at La Vallee. He had 
lately asked himself why he need continue its endurance; and had 
resolved the question by flight. His only regret in leaving the spot 
where his unhappy childhood had been spent, was the not being able to 
take leave of her who had been its sole joy amid so much misery ; but 
he had not dared to risk the discovery of his plans, or to compromise 
Flora, by imparting them to her. He was brooding on his regret, when 
he came to the end of his first few hours' journey from La Vallee. The 
sun was high in the heavens* and he had stopped to rest during the 
fervid hour of noon beneath a small grove of trees, just within a park 
fence. He had not been lying there many minutes, — stretched at length 
upon the soft cool grass, and indulging* the pleasant feeling of liberty, 
although mingled with the regret concerning Flora, — when he beheld a 
young gentleman approach, whom he knew to be Victor St. Andre, the 
owner of the domain, from having seen him once or twice at La Vallee. 
There had been a slight intimacy between Victor and Raoul, as owners 
of neighbouring estates ; but the little assimilation which existed in the 
respective characters of the two young men, would have prevented farther 
advances towards friendship on the part of Victor, had it not been for 
one other person at La Vallee. In the sister, Flora, he soon learned to 
feel a potent attraction for him, that far outweighed the power which 
Raoul's qualities had to repel him. 

There was that in Victor St. Andre's frank countenance and generous 
bearing, which inspired a feeling of trust and liking in the heart of the 
poor fugitive youth. Although he had seen him but seldom. — for the 
subordinate position filled by Theodore at La Vallee did not permit of 
much communion with its guests — he suddenly resolved to confide in 
this young gentleman, and to make him, if possible, the medium of 
farewell to his cousin Flora. 

His story was soon told ; and as promptly met with sympathy, and 
friendly offers of assistance from the hearer. Victor St. Andre warmly 



THE FRIENDS. 295 

expressed his approval of Theodore's resolve to seek freedom and in- 
dependence ; he besought him to prove that he believed him sincere in 
his earnest desire for his success, by accepting a sufficient sum to carry 
him to Rome ; adding that it was. in fact, but an advance which he made, 
in payment of the first picture he should paint, to secure its possession 
for himself. The boy looked up with a smile at this kindly augury. 

It was this very smile of his ; it was his voice, so like hers : which, 
— besides the interest that the lad's own sad story had inspired in the 
generous breast of Victor. — caused him to speak so warmly, and to take 
so active a part in assisting her poor cousin. That brilliant complexion, 
those soft appealing eyes, brought the face of her he loved so forcibly 
before him, that his offered help was scarcely less a delight to himself 
than to the young lad. 

Then Theodore went on to beg he would contrive means of convey- 
ing to her his farewell message ; he entreated him to be the bearer of it 
himself, that it might reach her securely, and without the knowledge of 
her tyrannous brother. And then Victor felt as if the eagerness with 
which he undertook the charge, must betray his joy in having to devise 
means of speaking privately with Flora ; but the boy had no thought 
beyond that of sending his gentle cousin tidings of himself, to relieve 
the anxiety which he knew must be hers, when his absence should be 
discovered. 

With earnest thanks to the friend he had so fortunately encountered, 
Theodore proceeded on his way ; and Victor St. Andre lost no time in 
repairing to La Vallee, that he might execute his welcome commission. 
On arriving there, he found that Raoul de Beaupre was just mounting 
his horse to ride over his estate, and superintend some improvements 
that he was planning. He proposed to Victor to accompany him ; but 
finding him show no great disposition to do so, he said : — " Pray use 
your own pleasure ; if you have a greater fancy for wearing away an 
hour in rest after your ride, pray walk into my poor house. You will, 
I know, waive the ceremony of my dismounting to accompany you in. 
My presence is absolutely needful yonder." 

St. Andre, secretly congratulating himself upon the haughty young 



296 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

gentleman's necessity for absence, in a few courteous words, begged he 
would not think of deferring his ride upon his account ; and in another 
moment had the satisfaction of seeing Raoul set spurs to his horse, and 
gallop off. 

Seeing a page in the fore-court, Victor beckoned to him, threw him 
his rein, and bade him send some one to enquire of the lady Flora 
de Beaupre whether she had leisure to receive one of her brother's 
guests. 

In the interview that ensued, not only was Theodore's message 
delivered, but Victor's love was told. No sooner had Flora's heart been 
put into a flutter by the unexpected approach of her brother's guest, un- 
accompanied by that brother, than it was relieved, on her cousin's account, 
by the tidings she heard of him ; but then no sooner had the poor little 
heart been so far set at rest, than it was made to beat more quickly than 
ever, by the avowal of St. Andre's passion ; and it had hardly become 
aware of that secret, ere it learned another, — that of its own feelings : 
and it had not recovered from the agitation into which that discovery 
threw it, before it was asked in exchange for the proffered one of Victor ; 
and it was still in the tumult of all this emotion, when it gave itself as 
it was asked — frankly and fondly to him for ever. 

After the first raptures of the lover, he was as eager for Raoul's re- 
turn, as he had been glad to see him depart ; for he longed to have the 
gift confirmed ; he knew the feudal privileges of a brother, in disposing 
of a sister's hand, and he could not rest until he had obtained the young 
count de Beaupre's sanction. Flora, at the thought of Baoul, turned 
pale : and murmured a timid dread of his displeasure. 

But Victor would hear of no reason for alarm. He was conscious of 
no just cause of impediment to his suit ; and he could not think that 
mere haughty caprice would influence its denial 

The event proved that he was right in his hope. Baoul, who knew 
that Victor St. Andre was a gentleman of good lineage, a man of un- 
blemished reputation, and a soldier of honorable renown, signified his 
consent to these proposals for a union with Flora ; merely stipulating 
that some months should elapse before the marriage took place, as his 
sister was still so young. 



THE FRIENDS. 297 

Rosalind and Celia heartily rejoiced at these happy prospects of their 
friend. Flora de Beaupre ; but shortly after, events happened, which still 
more nearly affected them. 

The good old knight, sir Rowland de Bois, had not over-estimated the 
mischief that was brewing, in consequence of his friend Gaston's fatal 
self-absorption. This long withdrawal, this total abandonment of all state 
duties, had given duke Frederick the occasion he had so long warily 
sought. At first he merely supplied his brother's place ; ostensibly 
conducting the affairs of the realm during his temporary absence ; and 
carrying on the offices of government until such time as duke Gaston 
should have recovered from the grief in which he was plunged. Then 
gradually, he suffered his zeal to warm in its displays : he allowed himself 
to utter regrets that the lawful sovereign should be so engrossed in self- 
commiseration as to be incapable of fulfilling the duty he owed his peo- 
ple. He contrived that these regrets should find an echo elsewhere; he 
artfully sowed disaffection and displeasure among the populace towards 
their rightful sovereign ; he managed that his own administration should 
contrast advantageously with his brother's conduct as ruler : who, shut 
up with his sorrow, was unconscious of all this. There were many faith- 
ful partizans of duke Gaston's, who would not have failed to plead his 
cause with the people, and endeavour to represent his abandonment of 
their interests in its most favorable light ; but the schemes of the ambi- 
tious Frederick were so subtle, so carefully planned, so deep-laid, and so 
cunningly carried out, that the evil was effected, ere it was well suspected 
to exist. Accordingly, when quite secure that all was ripe for his pur- 
pose, he caused his brother to be arraigned on the charge of neglecting 
his dukedom's interests ; he procured his conviction, his condemnation 
to exile, and his own nomination to the ducal supremacy in his stead. 
Duke Gaston was banished ; and the usurper succeeded to his throne. 
Before the people could well know whether they were pleased or dis- 
pleased, their old ruler was expelled, and the new one installed. By 
several popular acts, duke Frederick strove to gain popular favour ; but 
though the multitude were appeased, and vulgar clamour was silenced, 
yet the voice of the faithful few murmured against his arrogated authori- 



298 

ty. But these, when he found they were not to be won over, he quelied, 
by having them attainted as disloyal subjects. They whose only fault 
was being too loyal, were treated as traitors — their property confiscated, 
and themselves banished the dukedom. Thus, many worthy gentlemen 
followed their late sovereign into exile ; among the rest, Amiens, duke 
Gaston's cousin, whom reverse of fortune only attached the more closely. 
Duke Frederick, in his paternal consideration for Celia, would not allow 
the sentence of banishment to include Rosalind. He knew that to 
separate them would be to break his daughter's heart ; and Rosalind 
had the comfort of knowing that her father was accompanied by a true 
friend, who would supply her place to him. 

Had not the old knight, sir Rowland de Bois, died at this crisis, he 
too would doubtless have joined those who followed duke Gaston in his 
exile. 

After a time, Rosalind had the joy to learn that his vicissitude, so 
far from having increased the weight of her father's sorrow, had had the 
unhoped for good effect of arousing him from his stupor of despair ; 
that he had seemed to gather strength under adversity, and to have 
attained a degree of philosophic composure, and even of cheerfulness, 
such as his friends at one time had not dared to think could ever again 
be his Hearing this, his child could scarce regard that as a calamity, 
which had brought about so blessed a result ; and when she thought of 
him as a happier man, she almost forgot to deplore that he was no 
longer a duke. 

Meantime, her own life was made a happy one, by the fast friendship 
that existed between herself and her cousin Celia ; whose affectionate 
nature, and tender love for Rosalind, besides her native sprightliness of 
disposition, inspired her with an ever-charming flow of spirits, which 
served to keep them both gay and blithe-hearted. It was an especial 
delight of Ceiia's to beguile her cousin into that mode of feeling, when 
a smile was too faint a token of gladsome fancy : when nothing save a 
hearty laugh — that sweet ringing laugh of Rosalind's — would serve to 
express the exhilaration of spirit, the innocent joy of heart, which sprang 
from youth, health, and goodness, needing but Ceiia's playfulness to call 
it forth, 



THE FRIENDS. 299 

Then Celia would say ; — :; What a delicious thing it is to hear thy 
laugh. Rose ! If I am high fantastic melancholy, its most distant music 
will suffice to set my heart to dancing-measure. 1 ' 

" Thou melancholy ! It must be high fantasy indeed, that would 
persuade thee thou had'st thy spirits tuned in that low key. Leave all 
such affectations. I prithee, to the gravity-mongers, who have no better 
claim to be thought capable of thought, than the putting on of a moody 
brow. A pretended melancholy is the shallow device of a wiseacre to 
get a character for wisdom : and a real melancholy befits scarce any 
thing but guilt. ; Tis one of the merriest-conceited of jests, when such 
as thou. — good-conscieuced people. — play at melancholy. Good con- 
science is not the stuff to breed genuine melancholy out of. believe 
me." 

" How know you that I have a good conscience ? What makes you 
so boldly pronounce upon me ?" 1 

''Marry, by those sure tokens; pleasant and infallible. Thou 
sleep'st sweetly o'nights, a sound token : thou wak'st cheerily and fresh 
o : mornings. a strong token ; thou'rt ever free to note the thoughts of 
others, a good token ; thou hast no brooding secrets of thy own : thou 
hast a hand frank and ready to relieve the wants of those who need thy 
help, which denotes thy own few cares. Thou can'st eat thy meat with- 
out peppers and sauces, a wholesome token: thou car'st for no wine in 
thy. fountain draught, a pure token; thou ne'er stick'st pins awry, a 
pointed token; ne'er wear'st unbecoming colours, a vain token, an' thou 
wilt, but e'en let it pass for a woman's token ; ne'er goest slatternly in 
thy garments, a neat token : or slipshod, a standing token : or neglect'st 
thy mirror, a clear token. Thou sing'st. and sigh'st not, when lost in 
thought, a glad token ; thou seck'st thy bed with a step untired, and a 
spirit as alert as when thou first arose, a confirmed token : and tliou art 
almost as soon asleep as a sailor, when once thy head touches thy pil- 
low, a token upon which thou may'st set up thy rest that all I have said 
is true." 

; ' Trust me. coz. I think, in the matter of an unbruised conscience, we 
may both thank the gods for having cast our fortunes in such happy 



300 

mould, as to have given us no cause to lay the burthen of self-reproach 
on our souls ;" answered Celia. 

'• 'Twould be a step in charitable judgment, if the favored among 
mortals thought of this when holding their moral heads above others 
less cared for by the blind woman on the wheel ;" said Touchstone. 

" Thou art there: art thou V T said Celia. " Hast thou carried our 
messages to those ladies I bade thee call upon, this morning, in our 
name ?" 

' ; Ay, madam. But truly, it demands some of the fool's philosophy, 
— videlicit. laughing at that which we cannot mend, — to enable a man 
bravely to face such insufferable moppets of silliness as some of these 
court ladies are. One will build you her reputation upon an arm or an 
eye; and then you shall be fanned into a fever of admiration, or ogled 
out of countenance. Another will make a stand upon the beauty of her 
ankle, and then you must abide all the shock of display, for she will 
receive visitors no otherwise than reclining on her couch, playing a 
thousand pretty angers, saucy petulances, and pouting, the while, 
with her foot. A third sets up for a wit ; and then, pray for Heaven's 
mercy on your patience and ears, for she will have none. A fourth 



" But can'st thou not find a favorable word for one amongst them 
all V interrupted Celia, laughing. " Wert thou not favorably received ?" 

- Nay, the pretty peats were only too favorable in their graciousness 
towards your poor servant, madam ; 'tis of their favor I complain. I 
care not for it, I vow. A sophisticate woman pleaseth not me. There 
is madame Lucretia, You shall scarce see her her own natural self, 
though you took her in her night-cap. She's farded inch-thick with 
affectation. She's perfumed to suffocation with the musk of pretence 
The color on her cheek is part paint, part mock-modesty. She leers 
and ogles by rule; sighs and languishes on system. Her smiles are 
calculated, her frowns prescribed. A simper is her heartiest laugh ; 
and no genuine tears spring to her eyes but those that belong to a 
yawn." 

" What think'st thou of madame Christine ?" 



THE FRIENDS. 301 

" Ay, there now ! "What a piece of pinched precision it is ! Those 
thin, compressed lips of hers, look like an owl's beak, with its tight- 
held pretence of wisdom." 

- If our court-ladies fare so hard in thy esteem, how stand the men 
in fcby good liking?" 

' : Faith, madam, I can scarce call them ' men.' Had you said court- 
gentlemen, I could have answered better ; for your courtier seems a dif- 
ferent kind of creature from your man. He bends so low, when con- 
geeing and making a leg to the idols of his worship, — place and power, 
that he seemeth a link in Nature's animal creation, somewhere between 
human biped, and base quadruped." 

- Thou art hard upon court-sins. Hast no growing sympathy that 
can teach thee tenderness for the foibles of thy fellows, now thou art 
become a courtier also?" 

" Madam, 'tis a trick of sag6ness, and conscious weakness, to censure 
those who are given to such errors as we ourselves have a leaning to- 
wards. So shall we 'scape suspicion. Moreover, 'tis well to affect slight 
regard for advantages within reach. Now that I am at court, court- 
vices, court-pleasures, court-benefits, are to be held as things of nought. 
Were I amid rural beauties, then, a life of nature and simplicity, should 
be my theme of disdain, while clowns and boors should wince beneath 
the edge of my scornful wit." 

" As thou wilt ; e'en let courtliness feel some of its keenness now. 
What other cuts hast thou for our court-people?" 

"Why, madam, — to return to the court gentlemen, — there is young 
monsieur Le Beau, with those tuzzes of hair on his cheeks and chin, 
and those furzes of hesitation in his moral courage. He'll tremble to 
shake hands with a man out of favor; and put off associating with him 
until they meet in the company of angels. He dare as soon be seen 
conversing with the arch-fiend himself, as with a poor genius ; and he 
will turn his back on a saint in disgrace, to curry favor with a coroneted 
sinner." 

'• But are not some of them lively companions ? How say you to 
that facetious gentleman, the young lord Dubadin?" 



302 

" His gestures are flippant-nimble as a squirrel ; but his ideas ar€ 
heavy in their dull monotony as a caged bear, lumbering, ceaseless, tc 
and fro, behind his bars. Bruin, as I have seen him in the court- 
menagerie, shouldering out the hours of his captivity, grudgingly indig- 
nant, ever stolidly striving against his own ponderous incapacity, is 
fittest emblem of my lord Dubadin's struggling thoughts. The com- 
panionship of such a fellow is among the most intolerable of pains." 

" All pain is hard to bear ; 'tis well to find philosophy for the en- 
durance of a dull coxcomb, among other diseases we have to encounter," 
said Rosalind. 

" Aches and pains are of divers degrees and qualities, madam ;" 
replied Touchstone. " There are some pains more difficult to boar with, 
— morally as well as physically, — than others. Is there any one that 
feels not the degradation of owning to a colic? And who shall be so 
hardy as to crave sympathy for a cut thumb 1 The bravest of us would 
not dare bemoan himself for it." 

" Therein are yet women better off than our lords and masters. While 
sovereign man is denied the privilege of so much as a wry face — we 
may weep, tear our hair, sigh and lament ourselves to our hearts' con- 
tent. But, come, your list of tolerable and intolerable pains. Give us 
your catalogue." 

" Imprimis, there is your headache, which is an intellectual pain • 
then there is your heartache, a sentimental pain ; there is the ache from 
gouty toe, a wealthy pain ; there are the aches from sabre and sword 
thrust, from pistol and gunshot wounds, all esteemed honorable pains. 
None of these, men account it shame to endure ; but few care to encoun- 
ter the obloquy, as well as smart, of a plebeian pain, such as starving ; an 
undignified pain like stomach-ache ; an abject one, like sea-sickness ; or 
a paltry pain, like finger-ache, though its claims to distinction were fes- 
ter or whitlow. But see ! There is your ladyship's messenger ; with a 
despatch from La Vallee." 

The letter from Flora de Beaupre was a long one. It told of the pe- 
riod of happiness she had enjoyed while her promised husband was still 
near her. But then came the bitterness of parting, when he had to leave 



THE FRIENDS. 303 

her and join his regiment ; and after that, came the dreariness of ab- 
sence, during which her brother Radii's morose humours, and cold arro- 
gance, had seemed more painful to bear than ever, from the contrast 
they presented with the qualities which distinguished her warm-hearted 
lover. Since then, however, worse had arisen. A certain chevalier Fa- 
dasse had taken a hunting-seat in their neighbourhood ; he had formed 
an acquaintance with Raoul de Beaupre, which acquaintance had ripened 
into a strong liking, while this liking was still further cemented by a vi- 
olent passion which the chevalier had chosen to conceive for Raoul's sis- 
ter. When the count de Beaupre found that the chevalier Fadasse was 
the heir of a wealthy and powerful baron, the circumstances seemed at 
once to obliterate all recollection of Victor St. Andre's claims ; nay, 
even to efface all memory that his own promise had been already given ; 
for, upon the chevalier's applying to him for permission to address his 
sister Flora, he had at once granted it, with every expression of satis- 
faction at the prospect of seeing her united to his excellent friend Fa- 
dasse. 

Poor Flora's dismay may be conceived, when she discovered how far 
matters had already gone, before she had had so much as a simple suspi- 
cion of what was brooding. Even had not her heart been wholly preoccu- 
pied, it could never have been won to any liking for the chevalier. He 
was a consummate coxcomb ; one whose profound sense of his own mer- 
its nothing could disturb or destroy. He was incorrigible in vanity ; in- 
vincible' in self-conceit. He had the most overweening estimate of his 
personal, as well as worldly advantages ; he entertained the most un- 
misgiving belief in his consequence as a handsome young bachelor, a 
chevalier, and the heir to a barony. How could he suppose that the in- 
dividual in whom concentered so many attractions, could by possibility 
be an unwelcome suitor to any young lady, whom he should chance to fa- 
vor by his preference ? The smirk with which he professed to lay 
himself and fortunes at Flora's feet, told how perfect was his conviction 
that they would not lie there long ; and that no other than the propei 
amount of maidenly diffidence which a young lady was expected to show 
on such occasions, could prevent her snatching them up at once, with ill- 
concealed exultation at the prize she had won. 



304 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

When therefore, in surprise at seeing him kneel before her, thus pro- 
fessing, she started back, averse and displeased, he only saw what he ex- 
pected. — the usual affected reluctance of a young damsel at the first 
avowal she receives of that which she would fain hear ; and he said : — 
" Sweet queen of flowers, in beauty, as in name, this timid denial is but 
an added charm. Far be it from me to brush with too sudden-rude a 
breath the bloom of modesty from the gift which you now withhold, on- 
ly to bestow with added grace. Let it come at your own sweet time ; 
grant that gentle heart to me in all meet season. Blushing, and coy as 
you will, be your yielding ; it befits your honor, and the delicacy of my 
passion. Thus let me thank my sovereign lady." 

But as he attempted to raise her hand to his lips, Flora de Beaupre 
summoned spirit to reply : — " I know not what I have granted, sir, that 
deserves your thanks. If it be your suit, that is yet unconceded, as it is 
yet unmade. I have heard no suing, though much assuming, sir." 

'•The dignity of your feminine reserve, lady, shall have all due ob- 
servance from me. I reverence too highly that charm of your sex — 
delicacy, not to give it the full amount of ceremonial it hath a right to 
exact. You shall have all the form of entreaty, of humble petition, of de- 
vout prayer, that so lovely an idol deserves. Your surrender shall be 
as tardy as your most exquisite sense of maidenly decorum shall de- 
mand — but let not your adorer — captive and conqueror in one — languish 
too long. Be generous in your season of appointed power." 

' : Sir, you mistake me altogether. Let me be explicit. I de- 
sire not your subjugation ; seek not mine. I have no wish to see you 
enact the part of a slave ; leave me no less free." 

'• Fairest bud of beauty, Flora, imperial blossom of blossoms," re- 
plied the imperturbable chevalier, " this pretty simulation of inexorable- 
ness pleases me, — as a part of your lady right; but the next time I 
shall plead, let me hope to see its rigour abated, and some slight show 
of favor substituted, on which I may live until such time as you shall 
see fit to let me behold the whole treasure of my possessions in that 
gentle heart." 

" You will not apprehend me, sir. Understand this ; the heart can 
never be yours." 



THE FRIENDS. 305 

" Your brother has promised me that it shall, lady. I know you will 
ratify the p jdge ;" he said with his most insinuating, and most satisfied 
smile ; - 1: d let it be at your own time and pleasure. Meantime I may 
not. I wi' . not. I cannot despair." 

The •' hevalier withdrew ; leaving Flora biting her lip, half in vexation 
at his impertinent self-sufficiency, half in amusement at the mode in 
which i was displayed. 

But soon she found no cause for smiling. The affair became only too 
serious All her protestations to the chevalier were treated in the same 
way, — as mere feints to veil her glad acceptance; while all her remon- 
strances with Kaoul failed in moving him one jot from that which w r as 
now too evidently his settled purpose Her love for Victor St. Andre 
gave her courage to brave her brother's ire, by reminding him of his 
pledged word, passed on a former occasion ; but he set aside all her urg- 
ing, by saying that he had chosen to recal that word, for good and 
sufficing reasons ; that he did not consider himself bound by a promise 
thus made ; that he knew the power which feudal rights gave him in the 
disposal of a sister, still a minor, in marriage; and that he gave her to 
understand, once for all. that it was his intention to avail himself of that 
power, by bestowing her hand on the chevalier Fadasse. He concluded 
by haughtily desiring her to conform to his will without a murmur, as 
he was resolved to enforce her obedience, if she were not wise enough to 
give .her compliance. 

The chevalier, without a misgiving of all this, retired to his chateau 
of Fadasse, to prepare for the reception of the bride. After his depar- 
ture, the scenes between the brother and sister were terrible. As Flora 
beheld all her hopes melt away beneath the stern unrelenting of Kaoul, 
she became only the more frantic in her entreaties that he would spare 
her the misery of becoming the wife of one man while her soul was giv- 
en to another. As the time drew on for the chevalier's return to claim 
her, and to wed her in the chapel belonging to the mansion, the fear 
that all would be so privately and peremptorily carried, as to effect this 
detested union in spite of all her struggles to prevent it, drove her to 
despair, and in agony, she flung herself at her brother's feet, and be- 



306 

sought him to kill her on the spot, rather than condemn her to what was 
far worse than death itself. 

Enraged to find such pertinacity where he had expected nothing but 
instant submission ; exasperated at resistance, where he thought to 
meet none other than the ready yielding which till then had followed 
his lightest demand, he spurned her from him, declaring that nothing 
should alter his determination to have her married, at the conclusion of 
the month then begun, to the chevalier; adding with a solemn oath : — 
i; I am so resolved you shall then be his, that, if the last day of this moon 
pass, and you are still unmarried, you may e'en wed Victor St. Andre 
himself. I have sworn it, and nothing shall move me from my rowed 
decision. Though I retract my word. I will not break my oath. But 
in order that there shall be no chance of your evading its fulfilment, I 
shall lock you up, young mistress, in the turret-chamber, whence I think 
e'en your own hot love will scarce furnish ye with wings to escape." 

Flora de Beaupre had swooned there, where she lay, at her cruel 
brother's feet : but he, nowise moved by her extremity of anguish, had 
raised her in his arms, borne her to the turret-chamber, and locked her 
in, scarcely waiting till she was restored to consciousness. Here she 
had remained ever since ; alone, save when her jailer-brother brought 
her, in sullen silence, some daily food. She had beguiled her solitude 
by writing an account of her misery to her friends Celia and Rosalind, 
though with scarce a hope of the relation reaching them. But one 
evening she had been so fortunate as to observe their appointed messen- 
ger in the garden, beneath the turret-window, looking about, as if in 
quest of her. She contrived to attract his attention ; and by means of 
some ribbons knotted hastily together, she had succeeded in lowering 
her own letter, and raising the one brought for her. 

Her friends gave her hard fate their cordial sympathy, and talked 
over many a plan for aiding her to escape from her imprisonment, and 
from the worse fate which was to end it ; but none of them seemed feasi- 
ble, none of them seemed to offer the remotest chance of success. 

" See, here she says, that the window of her turret-chamber is strongly 
grated ;" said Celia ; " I think I remember hearing that it was originally 



THE FRIENDS. 307 

ased as a dungeon for refractory feudatories. Out upon him ! To use 
his sister no better than a serf. Even could we succeed in gaining access 
to the outside of her window, by some one who should scale a ladder 
planted for her to descend, I know not how she could be drawn through 
those close-set iron bars." 

" Minerva, mother of mother-wit, though thyself motherless, inspire 
me with thy inventive wisdom !" cried Rosalind with sudden glee. ; - God 
Phoebus with his light, Dan Mercury with his cunning, lend me their 
several aids ! For methinks, I have a scheme seething here in my brain, 
which perchance may .prove a goodly one for our purpose. The gods 
delight in sacrifices ; but surely not in such a one as this, — the offering 
up of an unhappy virgin on the altar of a detested wedlock. Let us 
invoke them to further a plot which shall prevent poor Flora's immola- 
tion." 

<: Right willingly ;" said Celia ; " tell me thy scheme, that T may 
help thee, heart and soul, with prayer for its success, even if I cannot 
assist thee in its planning." 

" Let us to our room, then ; where we may talk, secure from all 
chance of eaves-droppers." 



The chevalier Fadasse was walking one evening in his orchard. He 
paced backwards and forwards, and seemed employed in pleasing medita- 
tion, for he not frequently smiled. The subject of his thoughts might 
be guessed from the complacent glances he ever and anon threw upon 
his white hand, as he spread it in divers positions ; now extended, now 
bent ; now with the little finger erect, now with all of them curved 
gracefully over the thumb ; now held sideways, that he might see its 
shapely joining on to th^wrist ; now upwards, and open, that he might 
trace the delicate veins and lines within side. This new and curious 
kind of palmistry, was varied by an occasional downward look of approval 
at his foot, or an appreciative regard at the calf of his leg, as he caught 
a sidelong glimpse of it, turning in his walk to and fro ; and more than 
once he stopped to observe the fall in his back, or the carriage of his 



308 

bead and shoulders, distinctly marked in the shadow of his figure, thrown 
upon the gravel-path. At the end of this path. too. there was a marble 
basin, holding water : and in this natural mirror, he could see clearly 
reflected, what to him formed the most interesting, and most admirable 
portrait in the world. He was startled from a profound contemplation 
of this object, by the sudden appearance of a strange figure. It was a 
man masked, and muffled in a dark cloak, who stood immediately in his 
path. 

' ; "What mummery is this?" asked the chevalier with a frown. 

The figure stood for a moment, immovable, with folded arms, looking 
fixedly upon the chevalier Fadasse. without a word. Then he slowly 
raised an arm. stretched it forth, waved it. and dropped again into his 
former position. 

At this signal, six men stepped forward, from behind a hedge, or 
thicket, near at hand, which formed one of the boundaries of the orchard. 
They ranged themselves three on each side of the chevalier, and then 
stood stock still: awaiting, as it seemed, the bidding of him who had 
summoned them. 

••What would you with me. gentlemen?" said the chevalier in a su- 
percilious tone. 

The six merely bowed in silence : and turned their faces, which were 
singularly wooden and meaningless, towards the masked man. He seem- 
ed to be the director of their movements; which were, to the full, as 
mechanical, and void of any spontaneous appearance, as their counte- 
nances. 

•• Will your worship condescend to explain ?" asked the chevalier of 
the masked man. But the mask mutely bowed, also : with the added 
courtesy, of laying his hand on his heart, which said, as plainly as ges- 
ture could. -'Excuse me." Then the mask pr^luced something from be- 
neath his cloak : and before the chevalier was aware of his purpos. ad- 
vanced briskly upon him, and whipped the something over his head and 
ears : by which means the chevalier found himself blindfolded. He 
raised his hands hastily, endeavouring to snatch off this something ; 
but he found it to be a kind of iron head-piece, securely fastened by 
clasps, or springs, impossible to undo. 



THE FRIENDS. 309 

He uttered some violent exclamations ; but they were totally unheed- 
ed. No word was spoken in reply ; but he could hear a sound of horses' 
feet, surrounding him ; and presently he felt himself lifted up in the 
arms of the six, mounted, and a rein placed in his hand. In a fury, he 
flung himself off, blindfolded as he was, at the risk of breaking his neck ; 
but he soon felt the six busy about him again. They forced him into the 
saddle, and held him there, three on each side. 

Feeling his utter helplessness, he made up his mind to submit ; re- 
solving to shout an appeal to any passengers they might chance to meet. 

Presently he found the horses put in motion ; and himself riding on 
between the six. For some time, they proceeded thus ; he hearing noth- 
ing all the time but the trampling of eight steeds. He tried to form 
some conjecture of the road they were taking, but there was nothing 
which could guide him to any definite conclusion. He thought the 
ground gave a soft and muffled sound occasionally, as they passed along, 
as if, at such times they were proceeding over turf ; he fancied once or 
twice that he heard a bird singing; at another time he distinguished the 
lowing of cattle, and at another, the barking of a dog. all which made 
him believe that they were still in the country. No token could he per- 
ceive of passers-by, which confirmed him in the thought that they were 
conducting him through by-ways and unfrequented paths. Once he was 
aware that they passed close to some trees, for he could hear the rust- 
ling of the branches, as some of the party brushed by them. He could 
form but a vague idea of the progress of time ; yet he guessed by the 
freshening of the air, and the coolness of shadow that seemed to fall up- 
on him, that the sun had set. After what must have been a some hours' 
ride they came to a halt. He could feel that the horse he rode was 
checked by another hand than his own, laid upon the bridle-rein ; then 
some food was held to his mouth, and the monosyllable, "*Eat ! " was 
pronounced. He listened keenly to the voice, that he might learn wheth- 
er it was one known to him ; but it struck him, even in the utterance of 
that single sound, to be a feigned one. 

" 1 care not to eat ;" he said. 

A can was proffered at his lips, and the same voice exclaimed :-— 
» Brink ! " 



310 

" Nor to drink ;" he rejoined. But he thought that this halt fof 
refreshment betokened an inn ; and he called out suddenly, and lustily, 
" Hallo ! House ! Within there ! Is there any one at hand, willing 
to help a gentleman, betrayed by rascals ?" 

But no sound replied, save the echo of his own words, which rang 
loudly out. and then died away. Soon after, they resumed their journey ; 
and soon after that, he felt his horse strain at the curb. The chevalier 
gave him his head ; the animal stooped ; and the chevalier could hear 
him drinking. They were crossing a ford, then. It suddenly occurred 
to him that they must have been coming round and round, over the same 
ground ; for he thought he remembered the same thing having occurred, 
more than once before, since they set out. But the interval of time and 
distance between each recurrence of the ford, showed him that the space 
they must have traversed in their round, — if round it were. — must be 
considerable. He took care to watch for this circumstance, carefully ; 
and became convinced that they again returned to the same spot, where 
his horse, each time, made an attempt to stoop and drink. He could 
hear the peculiar sound, too, as the eight horses splashed through the 
shallow water — some brook probably, that crossed the road. He tried 
to recollect, if there were any such ford, in the part of the country 
about chateau Fadasse ; but none could he remember. They must have 
travelled many miles, from the long time that seemed to have elapsed ; 
when, at length, the whole party came once more to a halt. This time 
they all dismounted ; and then, the six gathered about him, three on 
each side, and assisted him out of the saddle. He felt them lead him 
by the arms, up some steps ; a door seemed to open ; he found himself 
entering beneath a roof; he heard the door close behind him, some bolts 
drawn, a key turned in a lock, and other sounds of fastening, which fell 
heavily on '©Is ear, as denoting incarceration. Jle prepared himself for 
some dark dungeon, or gloomy cell ; for solitude, for bread and water 
for all the usual horrors of captivity. What then was his surprise 
when, the mask, stepping forward to unfasten the iron head-piece, ena 
bled him to see the place in which he really was. His eyes, long blind 
folded, cculd scarce encounter the blaze of light which burst upon them 



THE FRIENDS. 311 

and at first he cou/d distinguish nothing clearly in the excess of splen- 
dour which surrounded him. Gradually he could perceive that he was 
in a spacious apartment, hung entirely with rich silk hangings ; at reg- 
ular distances, chased silver sconces projected from the walls, bearing 
branches of wax-lights : a huge candeTabra of the same metal, depended 
from the ceiling ; a tripod of classical design, filled with flowers, stood 
beneath each sconce : and figures of sculptured marble, gleamed in snowy 
contrast against the deep crimson of the hangings, among which they 
were tastefully disposed, at set spaces from each other. In the centre 
of the apartment, stood a table, spread with delicacies. At one end, was 
placed a large chair ; on either side, two others ; and the table was laid 
with covers for three persons. As he observed this last circumstance, the 
chevalier Fadasse could not help wondering what sort of fellow-prisoners 
were to be his — if fellow-prisoners they were. 

The masked man had withdraVn ; but the six advanced, made some 
slight final arrangements in the disposal of the supper-table, and then 
stood waiting. There was a short pause. Then, a portion of the hang- 
ings at the other end of the room, was drawn aside, and disclosed a door 
(not the one — so it seemed to Fadasse — where he had entered), through 
which presently appeared two veiled ladies. 

" ho !" thought the chevalier, " a gallant adventure ! That's 
quite another affair. I am now in my element. Fadasse, my dear fel- 
low, thou art at home and at ease, now ! See that thou carry 'st thyself 
with thy usual address in such circumstances. Yet, poor sweet souls, I 
cannot but pity them when I think how small a share my heart can play 
in the attentions I offer them. That is devoted solely, in its faithful 
worship, to its sovereign queen, my Flora ! But, parclie ! I must not 
allow my becoming a married man to render me a boor. I must not 
let these dear creatures languish in the shade of my colcktess and ne- 
glect. Allons !" 

He approached the veiled figures, addressing them with some high- 
flown compliment. They each made him a profound curtsey ; and then 
motioned him to take the head of the table, while they seated them- 
selves on either side. He hastened to do the honors of the banquet, by 



312 

carving, and by helping each of the ladies to some of the dainties 
spread there in such tempting luxuriance ; for he remembered that in 
eating, the veils must be raised ; and he was dying with curiosity to be- 
hold the faces which must needs belong to such figures of grace and beauty. 
He passes to each, her plate, and she bows graciously, as it is placed 
before her. He watches them keenly. A small white hand is raised 
by the lady on his right ; whom he distinguishes from the other, by 
observing that she is the taller of the two. The lady on his left also 
raises a fair hand ; but in lieu of putting back their veils, they merely 
lift the plate from before them, and give it to the one of the six who is 
standing behind their respective chair. 

" Fair ladies, you use me barbarously to decline eating with me 
You first deign me the beatitude of your presence, to cheer my solitary 
meal : and then you crush my enjoyment by disdaining to share it. Is 
this one of the bewitching but tormenting caprices of your sex, with 
which you are accustomed to rend and torture our too-susceptible hearts? 
'Tis scarce hospitable. How may I know the cates are not poisoned, 
if you forbear to taste them ?" 

At a signal from the lady on his right, one of the six — who seem 
automatons rather .than men, so like machines do they move and act — 
places another cover at the opposite end of the table : sets a chair ; dis- 
appears for a moment : and then returns, bringing back with him the 
masked man, who takes the seat opposite to Fadasse. bowing low, and 
laying his hand on his heart. The chevalier can no longer complain of 
any lack of zeal in the performance of the part of tester. The new- 
comer fulfils his office with such right good will, that he swallows 
enough for three — the ladies, and himself. 

He also goes through all the duties of hospitality, — even of joviality, 
— with great^diligence, though in dumb-show. He pledges the chevalier 
with evident (though silent) cordiality, when he drinks, which is not 
seldom, or in stinted draughts. He passes towards him the bottle, with 
earnest (though mute) signs that he should help himself. He recom- 
mends various dishes to the guest, not by uttered words, but by unut- 
terable relish on his own part ; and by an active example, even more 



THE FRIENDS. 313 

than by significant and courteous gesture, presses him to partake of the 
good things before them. He lolls back, after the meal, with an easy 
air of satisfied repletion ; seems to be meditating, in a careless, pick- 
tooth kind of way, and now and then, while playing with a little dessert- 
fruit, has the air of interchanging some light after-dinner remark, so 
perfect is the pantomime with which he plays his part of entertainer. 

There is something in this self-possessed enactment of the host, on 
the part of the mask, which the cheyalier feels to be peculiarly provok- 
ing. He frets beneath the assumption of equality. — nay of superiority, 
which it indicates. He winces at the unwarranted freedoms, as he 
thinks them, which this kind of behaviour permits. He has more than 
once tried to frown them down ; but resentment against silent insults 
is difficult to evince ; there is something almost ridiculous in its dis- 
play, and the greater the endeavour to mark it, the more absurd it 
becomes. 

Fadasse gave up the attempt, by resolving to take no more notice of 
them, or of the impertinent who chose to play them off. He addressed 
himself, therefore, once more, to the veiled ladies. 

" Fair creatures," he said, " indeed you treat me ill. You set me 
down to a feast, it is true ; but you deny me that" which makes the 
charm of a feast, — festive intercourse ; which gives zest to the viands, 
flavour to the wines ! That magnate of the eastern story, who in a fit 
of fantastic humour, chose to try his guest's temper by a wordy vision 
of described dainties, in lieu of actual cates, was less tyrannous than 
my fair entertainers, who pamper my grosser appetite, while they starve 
my intellectual palate. Ladies endowed with wit such as doubtless 
adorns your speech, when you permit it to bless mortal ear. should not 
thus cruelly doom to famine your expectant listeners. Satisfy my im- 
patient hearing no less generously than you have regaled my other 
senses. I have savoured delicious food, provided of your bounty ; I 
behold yourselves, graceful and shapely; I touch this hand of cygnet- 
down -" 

He was about to take the hand of the lady seated on his left, as he 
spoke these words, but she withdrew it. 



314 

" Nay, fair Cruelty, why so cold ? I touch this hand of swan-like 
whiteness and softness," he resumed, attempting to take that of the ladv 
on his right. — when one of the six stepped forward, and touched him 
on the arm. with a warning gesture. 

"A strange household this f" he exclaimed, as he fell back in his 
chair, rebuked : and lifting a glass of wine to his lips to conceal his 
chagrin. ' : What companionship is there in silence ? Call it churlish- 
ness rather. As well drink alone, as drain none but mutely-pledged 
wine-cups." 

"You shall not deem us churls, sir chevalier;" said the mask. 
' : Rather than you shall have just cause of complaint, in being compelled 
to the imbibing of unsocial draughts, myself will be your boon com- 
panion ; a man, as it seemeth me, more fitly fills that office than a 
lady." 

" And yet poets have told us ere now, that women and wine combine 
for man's delight ;" said the chevalier. 

" Trust me, they are but scurvy poets — rascal poetasters, rather — 
who desecrate beauty by associating its inspiration with that of the 
goblet ;" said the mask. 

" But Jove the omnipotent had the good taste to make the budding 
vernal Hebe his cup-bearer;" answered the chevalier. 

" Jove, good sir, was Jove, — king of gods and men. It behoves us 
petty mortals take heed how we rashly challenge comparison with the 
Thunderer, or ape his doings. Moreover, sir, bully Jove repaired his 
uncourteous blunder, by taking Tros's son to be his tapster, when he 
saw his error of turning the goddess of Spring into a barmaid." 

Fadasse recognized the mask's voice for the same as that which had 
uttered the two monosyllables during his blindfold journey. It still 
struck him as being a feigned one. There was, besides, somewhat singu- 
larly perplexing to him in the tones of this voice. They seemed an echo 
of something that perpetually mocked his endeavour to retrace where, or 
under what circumstances, he had heard it. They were suggestive of 
something subordinate ; something that ought perforce to be deferential 
and respectful ; and which, therefore, the more vexatiously grated upon 



THE FRIENDS. 315 

his ear in the inflections which it now assumed of ease and familial 
equality. He felt galled and embarrassed, each time they sounded; but 
he strove to preserve his appearance of imperturbability. 

" May I crave your worship's name, since you favor me with your 
converse, sir?" rejoined the chevalier. 

" Far be it from me to limit your desires, sir ;" replied the mask. 
" Crave, as much as you please. But permit me to give you this warn- 
in"-. There are certain things here, which you may have a wish to ques- 
tion ; but to which you may chance to receive no replies." 

" Is your worship's name among the forbidden enquiries, pray?" said 
Fadasse. 

'• Sir, had you duly noted my words, you would have perceived that 
in the matter of demand, there was no prescription. You are at full 
liberty to ask what j|pu think fit ; but whether the satisfaction of answers 
will be yours, is yet an unsolved problem." 

" May one know if your own name is to remain a mystery V persisted 
the chevalier. 

" It is one of those mysteries that may not only be fathomed by 
your profundity, but may be revealed by my willingness to gratify 
your curiosity. Know me, sir chevalier, for your friend, Pierre La 
Touche." 

There was nothing in this name that reminded Fadasse of any one 
he had ever known. 

" Good monsieur Pierre La Touche," he said, " I am beholden to 
your courtesy. May I farther own myself its debtor, by your informing 
me the names of these fair ladies ?" 

" I would fain oblige you, sir. But, for all that regards those fair 
enigmas," said the mask, bowing, and placing his hand on his heart, " I 
must refer you solely to themselves. What they will vouchsafe for your 
contentment, I know not. But whatever it be, it must come of their 
own unurged goodness ; it must be conferred of their own free and 
bounteous will." 

'■ I am but too glad to derive my hope of favor from so promising a 
source;" said the chevalier, with an insinuating look towards each of the 



316 

veiled ladies. '' I cannot fear I shall languish long, when I look upon 
these feminine forms. A tender heart must belong to such exterior 
softness." 

" You see those women, and fear no protracted holding of tongues, 
I ween ;" said the mask. " You build, — as most men do, in their 
views upon the sex, — -on their soft hearts, and love of talk. Bad betrayers, 
both, of poor maidens. But we shall find how long silence will prevail, 
where a whim of will holds natural inclination in subjection. It remains 
to be seen whether Will, or Speech, — both so dear to female heart, — shall 
conquer. Meantime, sir chevalier, these ladies take their leave ; wishing 
you, as I myself do, the complacent dreams, such a gentleman must needs 
enjoy. Good night, and fair rest t'ye, sir." 

" Fair Cruelty, fair Rigour," said the chevalier, bowing to the ladies 
as they rose from table, '• for so must I distinguish jou, until you deign 
to acquaint me with your truer, because softer, names, I wish you the 
undisturbed sleep, which may not be mine while you remain inflexible to 
my prayers " 

The two veiled ladies made a profound reverence ; and withdrew, 
through the small door at the farther end of the apartment, followed by 
the mask, and four of the six automatons. The two, who remained, 
lifted up the hangings opposite, and discovered another door, which they 
threw open ; inviting him, by a gesture, to enter. He did so. and found 
a luxurious sleeping-apartment, no less superbly hung and adorned, than 
the saloon where he had supped. He was sufficiently wearied by his 
long ride, to hail the prospect of repose with eagerness ; so that he 
devoted but half the usual time to his night-toilette ; which it was his 
custom to perform with the scrupulous care of a fop. 

He slept long and soundly. When he awoke, he was surprised to see 
the moon-like lamps with which the bed-chamber was hung, still burning. 
He felt refreshed and wakeful, and had all the sensations of one who has 
slept for many hours ; yet no sign of morning could he discern ; so, be- 
lieving that he must have been mistaken in the lapse of time, he turned 
round and went to sleep again. It was but a short doze. He felt that 
he had slept long enough, — that it was time to get up, — that it must be 
morning. 



THE FRIENDS. 317 

" I forgot those thick hangings ; they exclude the light, doubtless ;" 
thought he. as he leaped out of bed, and drew back the heavy crimson 
drapery. There was a window-space ; but no window, visible ; the shut- 
ters were closely shut and fastened. He endeavoured to undo the fast- 
enings ; but thej resisted all his efforts. He went to another window, 
but with no better success. He hastily opened the door which led into 
the other apartment : but found the same blaze of light there, as when 
he had first entered it. The sconces had been replenished with wax-can- 
dles ; and the candelabra that hung from the centre of the ceiling, also. 
He drew back a portion of the hangings in one of the spaces between 
the flower-bearing tripods. There was a window ; but °lose-shuttered 
and fastened. He found another, and still another : but all were alike 
impervious to* the day-light, and impossible to undo. He tried to find the 
door, through which^the ladies ha^d made their appearance. He found 
it readily ; but it was fast locked. He searched for the one through 
which he thought he himself must have entered : and which seemed to 
be at the other end of the saloon. He found that likewise; but it was 
immov ably barred and bolted. 

He noticed that the table had been cleared of the previous meal ; 
and that it was now laid as if for breakfast. He observed, too, that it 
was laid but for one person. 

' ; Corbleau ! " he exclaimed, '•' they intend carrying on this farce of 
disdain yet awhile longer. 'Tis a shallow pretence, a poor affectation 
that cannot deceive me. Why should they have brought me hither? Is 
it not clear they affect me ? Why, then, delay avowing what is so evi- 
dent ? But 'tis like the silly vanity of the sex, — the palfrey of power, 
of which they are so fond. Allons ! Let us indulge the sweet souls with 
their fancied supremacy ; 'twill not last long. Let us be tolerant of 
their weaknesses, which after all, have their peculiar advantages for us 
gallants." 

Smiling, and confident, he went through the rites of morning-toilette ; 
taking, if possible, more than ordinary care in the adornment of his per- 
son. When he once more came forth into the saloon, the six automa- 
tons entered, bringing hot chocolate and other such requisites for ma- 



318 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

king the first meal of the day, as were at that time almost exclusively 
confined to royalty, or the highest nobility. 

He was assiduously waited upon, while at table, by the six ; whom 
ne did not fail to interrogate, with the endeavour to elicit something that 
might enlighten him on the subject of his present position ; but their 
wooden, expressionless faces, let him say what he would, made it a mat- 
ter of doubt whether they might not be deaf and dumb, instead of only 
voluntarily the latter. 

After breakfast, they cleared the table, and withdrew. 

The chevalier was seized with a fit of yawning. He cast his eyes 
round the room, wishing that among its rich adornments, mirrors had not 
been omitted. He strolled into the bed-room, and amused himself for a 
time with the toilette-glass ; examining his tongue ; twisting and coax- 
ing his whiskers ; smoothing his moustaches ; paring and trimming his 
nails, rearranging his rings and other ornaments. But even the most 
interesting employments will pall, at last ; and he sauntered back into 
the saloon. In one corner, to his great joy, he found a merelle-table, a 
chess-board, dice, and a pack of cards. In a recess opposite, a lute, a vi- 
ola, a viol-de-gamba, and a few other musical instruments. With these 
he entertained himself for some hours ; until, just as he was beginning 
to think it must be dinner time, in came the six, and began to spread 
the centre table. 

In this manner, ho now went on. He could form no idea of the lapse 
of time. He had not the slightest notion whether he might not be, in fact, 
taking his noontide meal at set of sun, breakfasting in the dead of night, 
or supping at day-break. He only knew that his different refections 
were served at about the same intervals from each other ; after he had 
himself regulated his breakfast-hour by coming forth dressed for the day 
from his sleeping room. Whether the moon and stars were then shining, 
and making night glorious; or whether the sun were high in the heav- 
ens, shedding its golden beams through the blue sky, and lighting up all 
earth with its splendor, he had not the remotest means of judging. 
The same blaze of wax-lights from the candelabra and sconces in the 
saloon ; the samo tempered radiance from the lamps, in the sleeping- 



THE FRIENDS. 319 

room, kept him in total darkness, — as to the progress of time. Once, a 
sudden light, (of conjecture) broke upon him. 

" Aha !" thought he. ;: my kidnapping and bringing hither was not 
enough ; my detention here was not sufficient ! It is requisite that I 
should be kept in ignorance of the passing of time, that I may not 
know when the thirtieth of the month arrives: that I may be absent, 
lost, nowhere to be found, on that day ; that I may be made involun- 
tarily to break my engagement with Raoul on that day : that I may 
not be married to his sister, in short, on that day ! Pardie ! The 
pretty rogues have laid their plans well ! But which one of them is it, 
I marvel, who has so set her heart upon having me? I would give this 
diamond solitaire to know ! Is it my fair Rigour, that tall, graceful 
beauty, whose eyes shoot perilous sparkles of light, e'en through the 
thickness of her veil? Or can h be that sweet little dove, my fair 
Cruelty ? For after all, — they cannot both wed me. One has doubt- 
less, for the sake of the other, generously sacrificed her own passion. 
Or perhaps they wait but until the fatal day which was to have seen me 
lost to them for ever, shall have safely passed, and then they will leave to 
myself the decision between the two; the rejected one content to yield 
me to her rival sister, though not to a stranger. For sisters they must 
be. How else could woman's love, — mutual woman's love — be found 
firm and true enough for so fearful a sacrifice ? Dear souls ! It racks 
my heart to be constrained to grieve them by a knowledge of the 
truth. Bat it must be told. However painful the task, I will be in- 
genuous : and tell them, I can never make any woman my wife but 
Flora de Beaupre. I will not, to spare theirs, break her heart. She 
has a right to my faith : it was first given to her. I will not drive 
her to distraction by forfeiting my word to her. They are fascinating 
creatures, 'tis true ; still I cannot be false to my poor little Flora, 
even for their sakes. Methinks, I long to see them again, if it be but 
to disabuse them of their fatal error." 

But many breakfasts, many dinners, and many suppers succeeded to 
eaeh other, ere his wish was gratified of seeing covers laid for more than 
one. At length, he perceived that the six prepared the supper-table, — 



320 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

or what, by its order of meal-succession, should be the supper, — for 
three persons. As on his first arrival. — a chair was set for him in the 
place of honor, and one on either side. 

As before, also, after a pause, the two veiled ladies made their appear- 
ance through the same small door ; and. with a profound curtsey to the 
chevalier Fadasse, took their seats at the table, while they entreated 
him, by a courteous gesture, to take his. 

" Fair ladies." he began, '• I am far too happy in this gracious return 
of yours, to greet it with a reproach. Otherwise I might, perhaps, with 
justice, accuse you of a too-cruel austerity, in having thus left me to 
pine so long for* the delectation of your presence. But I taste it now. 
We will suffer nothing to mar its perfect enjoyment. Let me help you 
to some of this exquisite-looking dish : 'tis wild-fowl of some kind, 
daintily held captive in savoury jelly, and needs no condiment to aid its 
own surpassing relish. I warrant me. Or to some of this farced pea- 
cock? The garnish of its natural plumage, so glowing, so beauteous, 
imparteth an air of longing to fly towards the plates of those so worthy 
in beauty to give it acceptance." The ladies bowed ; received what he 
carved for them ; then gave their plates to the attendants to be carried 
away. 

" Still implacable? Still relentless? Can I never hope to win a 
word, — a smile? May I never look to soften those obdurate hearts? 
Will they never accord me the grace of avowing, what I may venture 
to guess, from acts that have spoken, perhaps, eloquently, enough ? Will 
not those lips confess the sweet secret ? Will they not let me have the 
bliss of knowing from themselves that which has been so flatteringly 
and convincingly owned, in the fact of my spiriting hither? Will they 
not let me see them in their ruby loveliness aver, that which has already 
been spoken in deed ? Will they not let pie hear their soft accents 
murmur confirmation of my happy fortune? Will they not let me 
thank them, as only rightly they can be thanked, for their gentle yield- 
ing?" 

In the eagerness of his suit, the chevalier had extended his hand to- 
wards the veil of the lady on his right ; but a touch on the arm from 
one of the six, warned him not to proceed. 



THE FKIENDS. 321 

" Foi de gentilhomme. this is pleasant !" he exclaimed, petulantly. 
" You bring me hither, ladies, to play the gallant, and then forbid me 
the use of my tongue, by resolutely holding yours : and deprive me of 
the use of my limbs by those confounded living wooden statues of yours, 
who rap me on the arm if I do but so much as offer to take your hand. 
You have me carried off, as Hylas was borne away by the enamoured 
river-nymphs : you secrete me here, with all loving cherishment ; and 
then would fain have me believe that you care not a jot for me, by all 
this killing coldness of behaviour. You teach me your kind meaning 
by capturing me ; you warm me into rapturous hope by having mo 
seized and brought hither ; but you waywardly repress all expression 
of my passion, by this chilling and inviolable silence on your own 
parts. Surely this is beyond the licensed privilege of feminine ca- 
price." 

He observed that the lady on his left hung her head a little ; and 
thinking she was duly abashed at the justice of his remonstrance, he 
resumed. 

" Come :" he said, in a less captious tone, " I will not be severe in 
my animadversions upon the foibles of the dear sex. You shall have 
your fantasy of wilfulness out. You shall maintain your chariness of 
speech, your frigid reserve and distance. But you cannot hinder me 
from drawing my own conclusions from the one fact of my seizure and 
inprisonment by you. It is but right, however, that you should be 
informed of one thing in return. It is grievous to me to be compelled 
to give fair ones like yourselves the pain of knowing your love is 
placed on one who never can return it in honorable kind. But I must 
be frank. I can marry neither of you. I am promised, bound to 
another ; and to her I must preserve my fidelity." 

Both the ladies gave unmistakeable evidence of being violently 
shaken by emotion of some kind. He thought them weeping; and hast- 
ened to console them. 

' : Sweet creatures," he said ; " believe me, it gives me anguish to 
afflict your gentle hearts thus ; but I deemed it due to my own honor, 
and to yours, that you should be made aware of this fact. Now, if 



322 ROSALIND AND CELIA j 

contrary to all prudence, you rashly persevere to love me, — the peril be 
on your own heads ; I can say no more." 

The ladies drew forth their handkerchiefs; and beneath their veils, 
the chevalier could perceive them wiping away the irrepressible tears. 

" My heart is saddened, oppressed, by the sight of your grief, lovely 
ones !" he said : " would that it were in my power to assuage it ! But 
Fate has willed otherwise ! Take courage, dear ladies ! Be comforted. 
Believe that I pity, though I cannot marry you !" 

The two ladies abruptly arose ; cast themselves for a moment into 
each other's arms ; and withdrew in a burst of uncontrollable agitation. 

i: Poor souls ! Poor dear souls !" he murmured compassionately. 
" My heart bleeds to behold their agony. But it was my duty ; and I 
have performed it. Let that be my consolation." He helped himself 
to a glass of Tokay, and drank it oft": gave a deep sigh ; poured out 
another glassful; and after swallowing that, ejaculated : — " Allons ! we 
must resign ourselves ! I suppose, now that they know there is no 
hope of marriage, they will release me. Had they not persevered in 
keeping me at that chilling distance. — given me that proud silence in 
return for all my eloquence of pleading, and nought but avoidance for 
all my tender advances, I could, perhaps, have been content to have 
idled away some time longer here, in pleasant dalliance with these fair 
enslavers; but as it is, I will now hope that I may be detained no 
longer from the fulfilment of my promise to Raoul and the beautiful 
Flora. I trust I may yet be in time. I wonder what the day of the 
month is?" 

The next time he was conscious of thinking, he was wondering what 
the hour was. The wax-lights were burning low. The six were busily 
employed clearing the supper-table. He found he had been dosing in 
his chair. Once more murmuring " Allons ! we must resign ourselves !" 
he made his way to the sleeping-apartment. 

But many more breakfasts, dinners, suppers, followed each other in 
succession ere he was gratified in his hope of release. At length, after 
one of these breakfasts, just as he was about to engage in a game at 
inerelles. with as much of excitement and entertainment as could be 



THE FRIENDS. 323 

derived from a match against himself, he saw the mash enter, accom- 
panied by the six; who. as usual, looked like wooden figures moving on 
springs. 

•• Ah. my worthy Pierre La Touche, welcome ! ; ' exclaimed the cheva- 
lier. " ; Tis dull work, playing alone. I shall be right glad of thee for 
an opposite. Come, take thy seat : arrange thy men. I hear the savage 
British islanders have a rustic imitation of this, our gallic game of 
merelles : wherein they mark lines on the ground, for a board : have 
paltry pebbles, in lieu of our neat pieces : and give this, their bungling 
simulation of our sport, the title of nine men's morris. Hast thou heard 
of this Boorland version of a gentlemanly recreation ?" 

" Xot I. sir chevalier:" replied the mask. " My conversation and 
intercourse lie but little 'mongst clods. My tastes lead me to herd with 
my fellows. As it is the nature of sheep and goats to flock and follow. — 
and of bulls and deer to scorn mingling with baser cattle, so doth the 
cavalier of refinement, disdaining the company of rude clowns, consort 
solely with his kind. But my present business is not with nine men. or 
nine gentlemen, but with one, even with yourself, sir chevalier:" added 
he, stepping briskly forward, and placing the iron blindfolding once more 
over Fadasse's head. 

He felt the six gather round him. He heard the door unbarred and 
unbolted. He found himself led forward. 

'• Stay, good Pierre la Touche !" he exclaimed ; " I would fain bid 
farewell to those veiled beauties, ere I quit their enchanted palace. — as 
I opine I am about to do. — for ever. Lead me to them — Let them know 
I am being torn from them — Let me assure them that I leave, even more 
unwillingly, than I came hither." 

But without any heed to his exclamations, the six hurried him en ; 
mounted him : got into their own saddles ; and soon the whole party 
were riding in the same order as formerly. 

There was the same long journey \ the same indistinct traces of its be- 
ing performed round and round in a given space of some considerable 
extent : and, at length, came the halt, the dismounting, and the final 
withdrawing of the iron head-piece. 



324 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

The chevalier Fadasse looked hastily round. He was in his own 
grounds again ; on the exact spot where he had been walking when these 
men first accosted him. They were now scouring off. with the led horse 
upon which he had himself ridden, between them. Last, went the mask, 
bringing up the rear of the party. 

;t Villian Pierre ! Rascal mask ! Scoundrel La Touche !" shouted 
the infuriated chevalier ; " be assured I shall live to have my revenge of 
thee for this foul trick !" 

" I have already lived to have mine for the one thou play'dst me, 
master Fadasse, once upon a time, for many a long day together !" 
laughed the mask, in his natural tone, as he scampered away ; and was 
soon, with his companions, out of sight among the trees. 

" Peste !" cried the chevalier, '; 'tis no other than that truant imp, 
the old jester's son ! Who should have dreamed of his turning up again 
at Chateau Fadasse ? I was in the mind, more than once, that I knew 
some of those pert tones. A murrain on the varlet's impudence ! To 
treat me, his old master's son, forsooth, with such airs of equality. But 
who can those ladies be, in whose service he hath employment? The 
mischief is in it, when two roguish women, and a discarded page-jester 
ind knave, set their heads together to outwit one ! Malediction !" 

He bit his lip, and stood plunged in vexed meditation. The scene, 
the hour, were precisely similar to those when he had last been here. 
The afternoon shadows fell all as sunnily upon the gravel-walks ; the 
water in the marble basin shone clear and still as before ; the leaves and 
blossoms of the orchard were rich and bright- coloured as ever ; but where 
were the glowing and complacent thoughts that filled the chevalier's 
fancy on the former occasion ? Vague feelings of resentment, — of moody 
anger, — of baffled will, possessed him now. He stood there the conscious 
victim of some knavish trick, some arch piece of dupery, expressly played 
off' to make game of, and torment him. 

A serving-man crossed the court, and approached the orchard. 

" Hallo ! Sirrah Jacquot ! Come hither !" 

" My young master ! " 

The servant was about to hurry away again, to carry the news of tho 



THE FRIENDS. 325 

chevalier's return to his father, the baron ; when Fadasse called him 
back. •' Before another word, tell me what day of the month it is;" he 
said. 

" Good lack, master ! Why, the fifth, sure." 

" The fifth ! Then the thirtieth is past and gone ! " 

"The thirtieth ! Of course it is ; — of last month." 

The chevalier Fadasse uttered an imprecation ; but stayed to ques- 
tion no more. He hurried to his stable ; bade one of the grooms sad- 
dle his horse ; mounted, and rode off at full speed in the direction of 
La Vallee. 

It was many miles' distance ; and he did not arrive at the mansion 
until too late an hour to seek an interview with Kaoul. There was no 
house of entertainment near ; but he was spent with fatigue, and felt 
that he must seek rest and a roof at v all events ; and if possible, food. He 
approached a cottage, which he imagined must belong to one of the Beau- 
pre tenantry. He found it to be a sort of lodge to the park ; and, fortunately 
for him, was inhabited by an old w r oman, not inclined to be hospitable, but 
communicative. She told him that the great house was all in confusion ; 
that there had been a many worrits there, lately. That first there had 
been a terrible ' tripotage' about mademoiselle Flora, who had vowed, 
poor lamb, not to marry some rich abomination of a man whom her ty- 
rant brother had insisted upon her having, instead of that charming 
monsieur Victor, whom everybody loved, as well as mademoiselle Flora. 
That then her ' villian loup' of a brother had shut her up in the turret- 
room, swearing a horrible oath that she should not be let out until the 
■ abomination' of a ' pretendu' came to marry her. That the ' poor 
lamb' had pined and pined in her solitary confinement ; while all the 
time, preparations were making for her sacrifice at the altar. That the 
chapel had been re-decorated ; the saloons newly hung ; the house gene- 
rally made gay, against the expected wedding. That as each day brought 
the one fixed for the nuptials more near, the young count de Beaupre 
had been heard to express fresh impatience and wonder at the non-arri- 
val of the bridegroom. That at length the fated thirtieth had dawned : 
but still no bridegroom,— that is, no 'abomination' of a bridegroom. 
But in his stead, who should make his appearance but Victor St. An- 



326 ROSALIND AND CELIA ] 

dre the first lover, come to claim Lis betrothed wife. That then cer 
tain facts had transpired. How that Raoul's oath had specified a clause, 
in favour of which, Flora, if not wedded on the last day of the month to 
the " abomination," was free to marry him to whom she had been orig- 
inally promised. That the ' loup ' full of sullen ire against the truant 
' abomination ' had given a grim consent to the nuptials of his sister with 
the man of her choice, and that they had actually taken place on the very 
same day which was to have seen the ' poor lamb ' united to the detest- 
ed ' pretendu. 

The chevalier had contrived hitherto to conceal the personal interest 
he took in this narrative ; but at the last fatal piece of intelligence he 
muttered a deep curse. 

The old crone, who was rather deaf, and did not comprehend the im- 
port of his exclamation, went on to say, that the young couple were no 
sooner joined, than they were separated ; for that immediately after the 
ceremony, Victor St. Andre had been compelled to quit his new-made 
wife. He had obtained leave of absence from his regiment but for a 
few hours ; that he had travelled without drawing bridle-rein, to be at 
La Vallee at the requisite point of time ; and that it was all he could do 
to be back with the army in time for an engagement which was forthwith 
expected to take place with the enemy. The young officer had only re- 
ceived leave of absence from his general, for these few precious hours ; 
and now, his honor demanded his immediate return. He went, leaving 
the ' poor lamb ' still within the power of the ' villain loup ' of a broth- 
er ; for the young husband had not even time to remove his Flora to 
the protection of their own house. All Victor could do, was to beseech 
Raoul to remember that she was his orphan sister, until such time as 
he himself could return to claim her as his wedded wife. 

But it seems that no sooner was Victor St. Andre gone again, than 
Raoul resumed his old tyranny. There had been nothing but a succes- 
sion of ' tripotages' since, the old woman said. Nothing but recrimina- 
tion and reproach on the one side ; with tears, and wringing of hands-, 
and swooning, on the other. Until at length, on that very yesterday, it 
was discovered that mademoiselle Flora, ' poor lamb,' had strayed ; she 



THE FRIENDS. 327 

was missing, was nowhere to be found, was lost, was gone. She had fled 
from her brother's house, no one knew whither ; and Raoul, half in 
rage, half in affright, had taken horse, and set off from La Vallee to seek 
her. 

' : Then the count de Beaupre is no longer here ?" enquired the cheva- 
lier. He had to repeat his question, before he could make the old woman 
understand what he asked ; and then, finding that it was indeed too 
true, and that neither Raoul nor Flora were now at La Vallee, he re- 
solved to stay no longer. He took his departure even yet more deeply 
mortified than he had arrived. He now saw plainly that he had been 
made the object of a welhconcerted scheme to keep him out of the way 
until the period of Raoul's rash vow should have elapsed ; thus afford- 
ing an opportunity to Flora of effecting the only means of escape in her 
power. 

Piqued at her evident disinclination for himself, which the whole affair 
discovered, he was the less wounded by the loss of the young lady ; but 
his pride could not endure this defeat ; he was enraged, too, that the 
brother had it in his power to reproach him with his failure in appearing 
on the day appointed, even though this non-appearance was involuntary. 
His self-love revolted from the humiliation of having to vindicate himself 
to Raoul ; who would probably disbelieve the whole story of his kidnap- 
ping and detention. 

He resolved therefore, that he would altogether avoid the vexatious 
reminiscence of these late circumstances, by leaving the scene of their 
occurrence for a time ; and accordingly set out upon a journey of some 
months into Spain, to try what travel and change of scene would do 
towards obliterating the memory of these mortifications. 



Rosalind and Celia were spending a pleasant season of retirement at 
Beaulieu. The former little thought she was so near the spot chosen by 
•her father for his place of exile. She had not yet learned, that it was in 
the forest of Arden he had withdrawn with his faithful friends ; that in 
the very cave where he had once in happy youthful days with his lost 



3.28 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

wife, laid sportive plans for a future hermitage, he had found safe shelter 
in the present storm of his fortunes : that in the very scenes where he 
had once strayed with her in gaiety of hope which nothing yet had chilled, 
he was now acquiring the cheerful philosophy and resignation of spirit 
which should best enable him to endure her loss as but a temporary 
earthly separation. 

His daughter, all unconscious of his vicinity, was, as usual, happy in 
the companionship and perfect love that subsisted between her cousin 
Celia and herself; and, one bright spring morning, at this time, the two 
were pacing up and down the broad terrace-walk of Beaulieu, thus con- 
versing : — 

" Ay, 'tis all well ended, so far ;" said Celia. ; ' Flora's hasty letter 
brought me word that the marriage had happily and surely taken place ; 
that she was, beyond all fear, the wife of him she loved. But this com- 
pelled separation from her young husband — now her proper protector ; 
this inevitable return to the guardianship of her unnatural brother, 
fills me with fears for her. Matrimony, in tales we read, is ever the 
happy ending ; but in poor Flora's case, I fear me, 'tis but the commence- 
ment of fresh troubles." 

" In tale-telling, the false rogues of writers would fain have us believe 
wedlock is the blissful goal ;" replied Rosalind ; " if we are to credit 
realities, 'tis too frequently the prelude of care. Well for Flora, that her 
troubles commence not where a wife would least have them spring, — from 
her husband. The young couple can scarce pick conjugal quarrels, apart 
as they are." 

" Absence ofttimes breeds anxiety and doubt ; which can scarce arise 
between two who truly love each other, when together ;' said Celia. 
" But we will not meet cares half way. Time enough to consider how 
they may best be provided for, when they arrive, and we are forced to 
house them. I will not suffer myself to dread ill-usage for her, from 
Baoul. He will not dare mal-treat her, sure, now she is a wife, and 
beyond the lawful pale of his authority. Let us rather content ourselves 
that she is safe married to the man she prefers, and safe from marriage 
with the man she abhors." 



THE FRIENDS. 329 

" c Abhor,' is a strong word ;" said Rosalind, laughingly : ;: yet 'tis 
scarce too strong to speak the feeling aroused in a woman's heart 'gainst 
such a self-sufficient fribble as Fadasse. How chivalrously he sought to 
protect us from our own weak hearts ! How generous his compassion 
for our lovesick grief ! How tender his considerations for our disap- 
pointment. What a noble self abnegation did he display towards his 
enamoured captors ; and with what disinterested candour did he not 
break to us the groundlessness of our hope. But I would wager aught 
that should not imperil mine honor, that had the two veiled fair ones, 
not kept him at such arm's length as they did — he would have indulged 
their foible for his sweet person, though he chose not to give either of 
them a wedding-ring right to its exclusive possession. Out upon the 
conceited coxcomb !" 

" My sport in the device was. to see how the fool had the wit to pay 
off old scores, by treating his former tyrant as his puppet :" said Celia. 
i: Touchstone as the masked man. matched the chevalier for making him, 
as a boy, his foot-ball." 

As Celia finished speaking, she found herself suddenly in the arms 
of some one. who clasped her close, and imprinted several kisses, in 
rapid succession, upon her lips. 

She strugglecf to free herself; and to her indignation perceived that 
it was a strange youth, who had burst from a thick pleached arbour at 
one end of the terrace, and whom, at first, she did not recognize. 

u How now, young sir ! — What ruffian behaviour is this ?" she ex- 
claimed. 

Rosalind said laughingly : — :: Do you not know him. coz ? Do you 
not perceive it is Theodore, Flora's cousin ?" 

" I know not how that entitles him to accost me thus — I should 
rather say, to assail me thus : said Celia. with a sparkling eye. and a tone 
that showed she was much hurt and offended. 

" Cast thy glance upon him once more, ere thou pour forth all the 
rials of thy virtuous wrath upon the poor youth's head :" said Rosalind, 
still laughing. — " See here, what think'st thou of this, as a warrant for 
the innocence of his assault ?" 



330 

Celia saw her cousin draw down from among the short black clusters 
of hair which peeped beneath Theodore's broad hat. a long bright gold- 
en ringlet. Rosalind drew it to its full shining length, in a sort of 
smiling triumph of proof ; then let it go ; and as it sprung up from her 
finger and- thumb, in a wavy elastic curl against its owner's glowing 
cheek, it proclaimed that owner a very woman, — Flora de Beaupre her- 
self. 

" Dear Flora ! you here ! in this dress ? How came you hither % 
How came Bose to know of your presence — of your disguise ?" 

" I contrived to let her into my secret first, in order that we might 
try its eifect upon you securely. For it is of- all importance that my 
disguise should be unsuspected, as I am about to take shelter with you, 
until my husband returns to take me to my future home." 

" With what a pretty air of wifely pride doth she talk of * my hus- 
band,' and ' my future home !' " said Celia, looking at her with a loving 
smile. 

i " But will you harbour me till I can claim them with as open a 
pride, as I now may show to you alone, dear friends V said the blushing 
Flora. 

" You know how right willing we shall be to have you with us ;" 
answered they. 

' : I do know it ; and in this happy confidence, I made my plans. I 
will not tell you how cruelly I was made to feel that I could no more 
abide under the roof where I was born. Suffice it that I felt I no long- 
er possessed a brother in one who seems to lose all natural affection in 
his rage of thwarted power. I bethought me of taking refuge with you : 
but I knew that your father, Celia, might object to his daughter openly 
receiving a runaway sister. Could I conceal my identity for a time, 
and remain with you quietly here at Beaulieu, where I learned you 
were staying, I might be safe until Victor's return. I therefore pro- 
vided myself with one of my cousin's suits ; stained my eyebrows black ; 
and by good fortune found a peruke of the same hue, which had once 
at a masked ball, served my mother. Thus disguised, I stole from La 
Vallee under shadow of night; made my way across the country, 



THE FRIENDS 331 

through bye-wa ys, and least-frequented paths ; and this morning, with- 
out a single misadventure, reached Beaulieu in safety. I was fortunate 
enough to stumble on your faithful follower, Touchstone (whom I had 
determined to take into my secret, knowing that it would be fruitless to 
attempt concealment from his sharp eyes) ; him I begged to take my 
message to Rosalind, who came to me, welcomed me warmly, and after- 
wards stationed me in this close arbour, whence I might steal out 
as Theodore, and take you by surprise in the graceless style I did. 
Forgive me the alarm I caused your modesty, in consideration of the 
assurance it gives us, that my disguise is beyond suspicion perfect." 

" Thou art a dear fellow; and as proof I forgive thee thy saucy at- 
tack, I give thee this embrace of my own accord ;" said Celia, giving 
Flora a hearty hug as she spoke. 

" How will your ladyship's father take it, if he chance to see you 
clasping a young gallant about in that free fashion ?" said the voice of 
Touchstone, who came up at this instant. 

" My father ! What say'st thou ? What mean'st thou, sirrah ?" 

" I say that he is here. I mean that he is arrived. I saw his grace's 
coach enter the great gates of the park but even now: and hastened 
hither to acquaint your ladyship thereof. It is high time for timely 
warning when a woman's arms are wrapt round nianky doublet, and 
father or husband approaches." 

""Dear Flora, what shall be done? Will you risk meeting my 
father's eye ?" 

" I have no fear ; I have complete faith in my disguise, since I have 
proved upon you its efficacy of deceiving. Besides, the likeness between 
my cousin and myself is well known. Present me to the duke as Theo- 
dore, and all is safe." 

The experiment proved completely successful. Duke Frederick spent 
a day or two at Beaulieu; with no other thought than that the youth 
he found there on a visit to his daughter and niece, was Theodore de 
Beaupre. whom they had formerly known when they were all children 
together at La Vallee. 

On his return to court, the duke found Kaoul awaiting an interview 



332 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

with him. The young count came to ask whether any tidings of his sis- 
ter had reached her friends, Rosalind and Celia ; as he had immediate- 
ly suspected that she would seek protection of them. But duke Fred- 
erick, with the utmost confidence in the truth of what he asserted, 
assured him that they knew nothing of Flora's whereabout. He was 
going to add, that Theodore had returned from Koine for a holiday-visit 
to France ; and that he had grown into a tall stripling, with the same 
remarkable resemblance between him and his cousin Flora, which had 
formerly been apparent ; but remembering that the lad had fallen into 
Raoul's displeasure, by his abrupt departure, some years ago, from La 
Vallee, the duke refrained from mentioning the circumstance of his 
being now at Beaulieu. 



There, the three ladies spent some pleasant time together. Flora 
would have been quite happy with her young friends ; had it not been 
for her anxiety respecting Victor, of whom she heard no direct tidings. 
Rumours of continually recurring engagements between the two armies, 
occasionally reached her retreat ; but no certain news. 

Her friends sought to cheer her, by hopeful prognostics ; but she 
could not altogether forget her fears for his safety. 

" ' If he should be wounded,' madam ?" repeated Touchstone one 
day, overhearing her murmured expression of dread least such a chance 
should befal ; - ; if he should, why, more shame for him not to have 
been crouching in a ditch. Serve him right, I say, for his folly. A 
man's a fool to become a soldier at all ; but a thrice double fool, not 
to duck when bullets are flying about him, and blows are aimed at his 
head. Wisdom knows better. Bravery's little better than foolery, 
believe me." m 

" Thou speak'st foolery, like a fool as thou art, fool ;" said Rosa- 
lind. : ' She would not have her husband other than the brave man he 
is, for all her coward speech." 

" The fool speaks according to his nature, lady ; well if all wise peo- 
ple did the like. Folly and light talking are as becoming in cap and bells. 



THE FRIENDS. 33b 

as learning from philosophic lip. 'Tis a trick of prate, both. But the 
jester's art cometh the nearer to nature, being mother-wit." 

" Thou confound'st wisdom with learning, fool. Wisdom is as truly 
the offspring of mother-wit as jesting." 

•• Najj madam, 'tis 3*0111' schoolmen confound them, not I. The 
bookman who crams his brain with the musty thoughts of others, claims 
credit for them, as though fresh-born of his own pia mater. He chews 
the cud of other men's fancies, and reproduces them with the grave vis- 
age, and solemn complacency of a ruminating cow. 'Tis ever the craft 
of pedantry to confound erudition with knowledge. No duller dullards 
than your pretenders to wisdom." 

" Pretenders of all kinds are wearisome, fool. Pretension, ever- 
straining, and full of effort, must needs tire itself and others. But true 
wisdom. — like genuine mirth, like all things true and genuine, — is always 
fresh and welcome." 

'• Yonder comes a pretender of one kind, — a pretender to virtue. 
One that makes a sour-faced scarecrow of sweet-visaged virtue, by her 
own crabbed pretensions to be its votary. How will she be welcome to 
your ladyships ?" 

'- Tis madame de Villefort. Rose ;" said Celia. " Let us go in and 
receive her. I see they are ushering her into the saloon." 

Their visitor proved to be the lady in question. The marquise de 
Villefort was a rich widow, whose estate adjoined the Beaulieu grounds. 
In right of country neighbourship, she instituted a kind of inquisitorial 
visiting acquaintance with the young princesses. Rosalind and Celia ; 
and in right of her reputation for strict virtue, she contrived to make her 
visits as odious as possible. She was always critical ; always censorious ; 
full of animadversion upon others ; had an ever-crammed budget of 
misconduct to tell ; was never without a supply of news, slanderous, 
detractive, mysterious, calumnious, conveyed in inuendo and affected 
commiseration. 

She was so over-good, that she made goodness hateful. She was so 
fastidious and scrupulous, that she made scruples an impertinence. She 
was so oppressively virtuous, that she made virtue a bugbear. In short, 



334 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

the marquise de Villefort was a prude. Many a coquette by nature is 
a prude by circumstance. Her advances are slighted, and she takes re- 
fuge in receding. Not encouraged to be forward, she revenges her own 
want of charms, and the insensibility of mankind, by being ultra-back- 
ward. She haply owes her immaculacy to a plain set of features ; but 
unwilling to derive it from so mortifying a source, she gives it a voluntary 
air by repulsive manners. Her homeliness preserves her from solicita- 
tion ; but by demure conduct, she hopes to have it thought that only, 
which keeps wooers at a distance. Nature has made her looks forbidding 
in a personal sense; she hopes by art to make them seem forbidding in 
a moral sense. She is unattractive in herself; but in order to screen 
this, she assumes unattractive behaviour, that admiration may appear 
repressed, not unyielded. 

This prudish widow had a pet dog, that she always carried about in 
her arms ; and on him she lavished those caresses which she was sup- 
posed to withhold from mankind. She would frequently expatiate on 
the intimacies to which she admitted this canine favourite, while they 
were denied to his human brethren, with a minuteness and an emphasis, 
that had anything but the severe delicacy which she fancied herself 
pourtraying. She would often declare that Cher-ami alone should share 
her couch ; while no second husband might ever hope to win her to 
another espousal. She would press her lips to the muzzle of the little 
animal, fondle him against her bosom, and let him lie for hours on her 
lap ; while she held forth on the inflexibility with which she should frown 
away all presumers to her hand. This lady it was, who now came to 
pay a neighbourly visit at Beaulieu. She entered the saloon, bearing 
Cher-ami, as usual, curled within one of her arms, just as Rosalind, Celia, 
and Flora, approached from the terrace, coming in through one of the 
windows that opened on to the ground. 

A fair morning to you, young ladies, and to you, young sir. I see 
you are still at Beaulieu. How comes it that your studio in Rome 
allows of so protracted an absence ? Will not art languish, while you 
are giving your time — I will not say idling your time — -here, with these 
fascinating princesses % Beware they do not bewitch you into an utter 
oblivion of your vowed mistress — Painting." 



THE FRIENDS. 333 

Flora addressed some suitable reply, in her character of Theodore, 
and by a well-turned compliment to the widow herself, contrived to divert 
her attention from the subject she had chosen for discussion. 

" What do you think I have heard, sweet ladies," said the marquise 
turning to Rosalind and Celia, " concerning that young gentleman in 
whom you took some interest, I think, on account of his marrying a 
friend of yours. I speak of Victor St. Andre. It is said, that he is in 
high favor with his general officer ; not only on account of his gallant 
behaviour in the late actions against the enemy, but from the assiduous 
court he is paying to the general's daughter. She is an only child, a 
rich heiress, and no bad c partie' for a young lieutenant : but it is really 
scandalous behaviour in Victor to pay attentions to this young creature, 
when he is already a married man. He perhaps considers himself hardly 
such ; for I have heard — you can tell me if it be true — that he was com- 
pelled to leave his bride at the very altar. A bride and a wife are very 
different personages ; and after all. men allow themselves strange license ; 
still, I think he cannot venture either to befool the general's daughter, 
or to betray the young lady between whom and himself a legal ceremony 
has certainly taken place." 

" Victor St. Andre will never do anything unworthy, I dare avouch, 
madame la marquise ;" said Rosalind firmly. 

" It is impossible to conjecture what young men will attempt ;" 
returned the marquise ; "their principles are. alas, too often sadly lax 
on such points. They take a latitude of privilege, that we poor women 
dream not of. He may not be able to resist the temptation of a match 
with one who is reported to be lovely, wealthy, and not insensible to his 
merits ; and moreover, an alliance with whom will at once secure his 
military promotion. But tell me, my dear, did he, as it is said, quit 
his scarce-married wife in the very hour of their nuptials? This point 
makes an important distinction in the view I take of his conduct. I am, 
I will own it. perhaps over-nice in my notions of what is due to feminine 
honor." 

" Over-niceness allows itself to pry into matters that simple modesty 
leaves unapproached, e'en in thought ;" replied Rosalind. " But jealous 



as I aui for my friend Flora's honor and happiness, I will not believe, for 
an instant, that they are imperiled by having been committed to the 
keeping of Victor St. Andre. He is her husband, madam, and will never 
act otherwise than consistently with that character." 

" My dear princess, you are warm ;" said the marquise, charmed to 
find that she had excited a sensation by her news. '• I see your cousin 
has so taken to heart these tidings of Victor's treachery " 

" Treachery, madam ! Is it thus you stigmatize a man's acts, on a 
mere idle rumour, that has doubtless exaggerated a passing courtesy to 
his general's child, into an offer of marriage?" 

'• My dear, I trust it will prove so. I only know that he was seen 
bearing her in his arms to a litter that was waiting in a sheltered lane, 
one evening; and that she seemed nowise averse to be so supported. 
But all this is hearsay, probably. Pray be easy : I dare say all is as it 
should be. Only, I was about to say, your cousin seems to be so much 
affected by these reports of her young friend's husband having forgotten 
the ties that bind him already, that she has withdrawn. And leaning 
upon the arm of that youth, too. I must caution you, my dear, as a 
friend to your cousin, that if she wish to avoid having awkward conclu- 
sions drawn from the familiarity with which she treats that young fellow, 
she should keep him at greater distance." 

" Never fear, madam. Celia regards Theodore for her friend Flora's 
sake. You may have perhaps heard that he is madame St. Andre's 
cousin ; and the poor youth was doubtless affected by what he heard you 
tell of the whispers which have gone forth concerning her husband's 
alledged inconstancy." 

" Now I think of it, the young gentleman's cheek did grow pale as 
I went on. He even seemed much agitated as your cousin led him away J 
but still I think she consults not her own dignity in taking so evident 
an interest in master Theodore's uneasiness. Tell her so, from me, my 
dear, as a friend who feels a sincere anxiety for the unspotted preserva- 
tion of her good name." 

" I will not fail, madame la marquise ; though I have no fear but that 
my Celia's own unprompted delicacy will suffice. Ay, even in spite of 



THE FRIENDS. 337 

evil tongues that are ever busy ; and of misconstruction and misrepre- 
sentation, that are ever on the alert;" said Rosalind, as the marquise de 
Villefort rose to take leave. 

The prude's morning tattle had done its pernicious work. Flora was 
very miserable. This poor young creature had been brought up in such 
complete subjection, that it had made her diffident of her own merits. 
She could not help attaching some credence to this tale of Victor's hav- 
ing forgotten her, in the dazzling prospect of a union with a young, 
beautiful, rich girl, the daughter of his general, and who, it seems, was 
not indifferent to him. She secretly fretted ; accusing herself of a too- 
credulous vanity, in allowing it to persuade her that she could seriously 
attach such a man as Victor St, Andre. But she rallied, before her 
friends ; she affected false spirits ; she assumed the indifference of resent- 
ment ; she tried to speak as if she felt only a growing coolness towards him. 
in return for his neglect of her. Rosalind and Celia were not deceived 
by this show of braving it, on her part ; they saw her feverish suffering 
through her apparent gaiety ; they knew her to be deeply wounded be- 
neath this exterior unconcern ; they knew her assumption of spirit to be 
but a courageous attempt to dissemble how much she was inwardly hurt ; 
but until they could give her the only effectual consolation, that of know- 
ing Victor to be still true, and unswerving in his faith, they let her carry 
it off thus with seeming indignation. 

" I -would he could obtain leave of absence, were it but for a day ;" 
said Celia once. " Could you but see each other — could you but hear 
him explain this, as he doubtless can, to your satisfaction, all would yet 
be well." 

"Why should I see him? I desire not to see him." Flora's trem- 
bling voice belied her words, as she uttered this treason against the love 
that lay hidden in her heart — •' Why should I listen to explanations, 
which he, like the rest of his sex, is well able, no doubt, to pour forth at 
will, in the most plausible style, to the beguiling of us poor credulous 
fools of women." 

" Beware how you let your anger make you unjust as well as bitter, 
dear Flora ;" said Celia. " Think if you can recall one instance where- 



338 

in Victor spoke otherwise than truly, acted otherwise than nobly. "We 
should judge friends in absence by what we know of them, not by what 
we hear of them." 

' ; He had the gift of seeming true and noble ; but how know I. he 
was what he seemed ?" said Flora, with a vain struggle to speak with- 
out faltering. • 

" Here are some unseemly drops gemming your worship's vest;" said 
Rosalind, pointing to the tears which fell fast and thick upon the front 
of Theodore's doublet. " What, man ! let not your woman's eyes rain 
their own betrayal." 

- They are tears of anger, not of weakness. Do not think they 
spring from a tenderness unworthy of a forsaken wife. I am no spaniel 
to fawn on him who spurns me ; I cannot crouch to a reluctant affection. 
If Victor desire to forget me, I will show that I can forget him. 
Why should he come to renew the tie between us. if he have wished it 
broken. Why should he return to excuse and explain ? I would not see 
him — I would not hear him — I could not bear to have him frame shal- 
low pretexts, utter hollow assurances, aver and protest a thousand un- 
truths. It would break my heart." 

"I doubt it not — were he to do so — but I do not think he would. 
He would speak nothing but truth : plead nought but right." 

" He cannot ; he cannot, Right and truth are his no longer :" said 
Flora in vehement agitation ; then mastering it, by an effort, she added 
decisively, " I would not see Victor so degrade himself. I would not 
see him, if he came hither." 



Touchstone had more than once heard madame St. Andre express 
herself thus peremptorily on the subject of declining to see her hus- 
band should he come to Beaulieu. He had his own secret opinion on the 
matter ; but he felt bound to abide by her avouched determination. 
This it was, doubtless, which made him act as he did, one evening, when 
as he was crossing the park, at some distance from the house, he chanced 
to meet the very gentleman in question, — Victor St. x\ndre. 



THE FRIENDS. 339 

" Hist ! good fellow I Hear me !" called Victor aloud, as lie saw 
the jester turn away into another path, as if he had not seen him. 

'• Whom call'st thou fellow, pray ?" replied Touchstone. " I would 
have thee to know I hold fellowship with no strangers. I give not my 
countenance so easily, as to let a man call me one of his brotherhood, until 
I know him to be a true man. Prove me your claim to the title, ere 
you name me anything but Touchstone, which is my rightful style and 
denomination." 

? I would have thy kind offices, good Touchstone, to lead me where 
I may speak with thy ladies, the two princesses. My business is urgent, 
and will not bear delay. Test me this gold, good Touchstone. Prove its 
value, by accepting it." 

'• Sir," said Touchstone, drawing back, " I am bribe-proof : although 
a namesake of the transformed Batrtus." 

" Is that a hint to double it ? Battus, thou know'st, yielded to the 
second offer." 

" When the silly old shepherd of Pylos gave way at the instance of 
him who niched the flocks of Admetus, he knew not his man. But I 
have a shrewd suspicion of mine. I take it, you are no disguised god- 
head, like the sly Hermes ; though you may well be one of his disciples 
— a thief, sir." 

" How sirrah ?" 

" You steal hither in the night, sir ; or, to speak more accurately. — • 
in the dusk; is not that the act of a thief? You would rob me of 
mine honor, by proffering a bribe which shall induce the betrayal of 
trust; doth not that prove you a thief? I find you furtively, fraudfully, 
stealthily, surreptitiously— -not to say, burglariously, seeking to effect 
an entrance into a dwelling-house against the owner's will ; is not that 
the proceeding of a thief? Truly, I think you are no better than one 
of those said Mercury's minions." 

" I'll tell thee what, fellow ; lying as well as thieving is, I believe. 
among their attributes. But as I am a gentleman and no thief, a true 
man and no liar, I lie not, when I promise to break thy head, an' thou 
do not my bidding." 



340 EOSALTND AND CELIA ; 

" Marry, sir, that promise shall hardly suffice. An' bribes could not 
succeed with me, threats shall not ; and where gold failed, the tempting 
offer of a broken head shall scarce prevail. I scorn propitiation. 
Give ye good night, sir. Sleep where you will, you house not here." 

Turning on his heel, Touchstone left the spot, and went straight to the 
saloon where he knew the two princesses were sitting, with their friend, 
the seeming Theodore. They had deferred having the tapers of the 
sconces illumined, that they might luxuriate as long as might be, in the 
delicious air of evening, and its softened light. The windows that 
opened on to the terrace were all set wide, and commanded a lovely 
view over the trees and lawns of the extensive park. A crescent moon 
was just rising ; its silver line clearly defined against the tender azure 
of the sky, which was still tinged with the last faint lingering golden 
and roseate hues of sunset ; and a few stars twinkling forth, lent their 
diamond sheen to the mild radiance of the whole scene. 

" You should see, dear friends, how firmly I would behave," Flora 
was saying, as Touchstone enterd the room ; " I would not betray my- 
self, were he close beside me. Until not a doubt remained upon my 
mind that his love has never wavreed, I would not let him guess how fool- 
ishly faithful, how weakly strong, my affection has been, and still is, 
for him. His very presence should not shake me from this resolve." 

<■'• The meaning of that, is this. — which though no rule in grammar, 
is a good phrase in logic;" said Touchstone stepping forward. "Your 
meaning is, as I understand it, sir madam, that you would be adamant, 
in case your husband besought you to hear him. 'Tis well that I for- 
bade him the house, when he would fain have paid you a visit but 
now." 

" How say'st thou ? ' But now !' Hast thou seen him, good fellow ?" 
gasped Flora. 

' ; A goodly adamantine aspen-leaf;" cried Celia laying her hand up- 
on the trenfbling Flora's sleeve ; " but sit thee down in yonder corner, 
and recall some of thy firm resolves, to harden thee against aught that 
may bechance " 

" Victor here ! you jest, man ;" said Rosalind to Touchstone, 

" As a jester should, madam." 



THE FRIENDS. 341 

" Nay. nay. leave thy quips now, and let us have sober verity." 

But just as he was about to tell her how he had met Yictor St. 
A.ndre in the park, he saw the figure of the gentleman himself appear 
on the terrace; and pointing to it, he said : — " In sober verity, then, he 
is here. Behold him !" 

Itosalind signed to Touchstone to be gone, while she herself ap- 
proached ODe of the open windows. 

The figure came onwards ; and seeing the lady, hastened his steps 
towards her. 

'• This is what I hoped ;" be said, as he raised his hat, and advanced 
to address her. " I hoped that I might be able to find my way to your 
presence unguided, since guidance was denied me. I beseech you to 
believe that I should not have used this scant ceremonial in approach- 
ing you, had not my state absolutely required secresy. With the hardly- 
wrung sanction, or rather, with the connivance of my general officer, 
I have stolen hither to obtain if possible, traces of my Flora. A 
rumour suddenly reached me that she has quitted La Vallee, and the 
protection of her brother; that she has fled.no one knows whither. 
You, dear lady, who are one of the two friends dearest to her, can surely 
inform me if this terrible news be true." 

" It is but too true ;" said Rosalind. " I pray you, walk in, sir, and 
let us speak of this farther. My cousin Celia and I have been sitting 
here in t]ie twilight, with a young friend of ours, until we forgot, in the 
interest of our talk, which was on this very theme, to order that the 
wax-tapers should be lighted ; but by your leave, we can continue our 
converse by starlight, rather than have the interruption of the attend- 
ants." 

" It best suits my condition, which must shun curious eyes, while I 
am a deserter from my post ;" replied he. ' : But in pity to my anxiety, 
lady, let me know all you know of my Flora— my wife." 

" Why did you not stay to see after your wife yourself, good sir, in- 
stead of leaving the task of caring for her to others," said a person who 
had hitherto remained somewhat in the shadow of the apartment. 

" That voice I" exclaimed Victor in sudden amazement. 



342 

a Ay, that voice, good sir; the voice of Theodore; which probably 
strikes upon your conscience, from its likeness to that of his cousin, the 
woman whom you, with so much of the insensibility ascribed to a hus- 
band, left, after an hour's marriage. You must be gifted with more 
than the usual amount of conjugal indifference, if you found time to tire 
of her in that short space." 

Victor gazed upon the youthful figure which stood there. The faint 
light fell upon the same face and form which had once before so power- 
fully impressed him with their resemblance to those of her he loved. 
There was the same transparent beauty of complexion ; contradicted by 
the pencilled jet eyebrows, and the short thick raven clusters of hair. 
There were the same vibrating tones, so like hers in their fulness and 
sweetness ; but mingled with a pert, peremptory inflection, that brought 
to mind the querulous sadness of the boy's accents, who had accosted 
him that morning on the skirts of his own domain. 

" I remember you, now ;" he said, with a deep drawn breath ; "you 
are the lad whom I met on your road to Rome, are you not?" 

" 'Tis of a piece with the rest of your delicacy towards our family, to 
remind me of the service you then did me ;" replied the youth. " But 
I trust I shall live to requite it — to repay the money you then lent me. 
I disdain to live under obligation to one who has behaved to my cousin 
— my poor Flora, as you have done." 

" You know not how little there was of slight in my leaving her 
when I did, young sir :" said Victor. " You would not have had her 
the wife of a recreant soldier — a dishonored man — which she must have 
been, had I tarried one hour longer away from the army at that perilous 
moment. I loved her honor, which was then become involved in the 
preservation of mine own, even better than herself." 

" And truly your love for herself can be but of sorry quality, when 
we learn that it hath melted away in the fire of a newer liking ;" said 
Theodore. 

" My love for my wife can never melt in heat of liking for any other 
woman; and can only be extinguished by death itself;" said Victor 
firmly. " I forgive your rude questioning of myself, for the sake of the 



THE FRIENDS. 343 

affection it denotes towards her : and I answer for that reason with more 
patience than I otherwise might.'' 

" How doth your assertion of love for my cousin, agree with the at- 
tentions you are now reported to be paying to your general's daughter?" 

- Ha. ha !" laughed Tic-tor : " so that silly tale hath reached you. 
hath it ? On the eve of one of our engagements, the young lady }-ou 
speak of. came rashly near the field, to enquire of her father's welfare. 
He. in the very moment of giving directions for the attack, sent me 
with, his message of entreaty that she would retire from her dangerous 
vicinity, and also bade me leave no arguments unurged which might 
prevail with her to obey' his desire. A litter was in readiness: and 
after much eagerness of solicitation on my part, she yielded, and per- 
mitted me to convey her to it. that she might return home. This inter- 
view. I afterwards learned, was misinterpreted by some chance wit- 
nesses; and the general and I have had more than one laugh, since, at the 
absurd credulity which gave to a simple entreaty that a lady would re- 
move from danger, the significant importance of a love-scene. The gen- 
eral is about to unite his daughter to a gentleman of birth and virtue. 
He knows well that I am married. Nay. it is because of his sympathy 
with my present anxiety respecting my wife, that he has given me tacit 
permission to absent myself from the army while there is no immediate 
prospect of an engagement with the enemy. But. alas, if she have in- 
deed fled from La Vallee. how may I trace her ?" 

:; How know you that she would have you trace her ? How know 
you that your desertion may not have extinguished love in her heart for 
you? Mayhap, in the absence of the neglectful husband, some brisker 
gallant hath found the way to persuade her to bestow upon him. that 
which Yictor de Beaupre held not worth the having." 

' ; But that your voice, uttering my name, moves me in mine own des- 
pite. I would not tamely hear you speak thus lightly .of her :" said Yic- 
tor St. Andre. 

'-'• Peradventure, her flight is in company with this gallant, whosoever 
he may be. Why not seek them, and assert your conjugal claim? By 
prior right she is yours, you know. Why should you care whether her 
heart hath strayed irretrievably, so you recover herself?" 



344 ROSALIND AXD CELIA j 

" "Were it possible she Lad so swerved, and become the fallen thing 
your words describe. I would not hear you utter them :" said Victor. 
"Bat being as she is. I firmly believe, the soul of unspotted truth and 
honor, wherever she may be — and however fatally lost for a time — you 
shall not malign her unpunished. Come forth into the park with me, 
young sir : these ladies shall not protect you by their presence, from 
the chastisement clue to so shameless a tongue. Whatever advantage 
your youth and unequal height may be supposed to give me. will be made 
up to you in the disarming power of your voice. I am unmanned while 
I hear it." 

" You would fain have me believe you feel the echo of her voice, yet 
you would kill her cousin because he tells you your own descnion has 
made her a false wife." 

" I will fight even with that face — these eyes — those lips — if they 
couple falseness with her name !" exclaimed Victor, passing his hand 
across his eyes for an instant, as if to shut out the sight of what caused 
him such deep, such bewildering emotion. Then, in a sort of fierce 
rallying of his determination, he half drew his sword, repeating :: Come ! 
Follow me. young sir !" 

But at 'the first glimpse of the blade, the seeming Theodore sprang 
forward, and clinging to his arm. exclaimed — " Don't hurt me. Victor !" 

'•'• Coward, as well as slanderer?"' he cried, and was about to push the 
youth off: when Rosalind stepped forward, twitched away the black 
clusters of hair, and revealed the fair ringlets of Flora, exclaiming : — 

:i Have a care, master Victor, lest in your roughness to Theodore, 
you injure Flora !" 

" Flora ! my wife !" 

•'• Victor ! clear husband !" 

" Let us leave this foolish pair to fight out the rest of their quarrel, 
after their own fashion :" said Rosalind, leading Celia away. '- Clubs 
won't part them now." 

" Ay, marry : they're close engaged ;" replied she. ' ; But, certes, 
their fair encounter needs neither umpire nor witnesses ; so have with 
you, coz." 



THE FRIENDS. 345 

On the following morning, the happy party of four friends were all 
walking on the terrace together : Victor trying to assert his marital 
authority, in forbidding his wife to think of carrying out a resolution 
she had formed, of accompanying him to the army as his page, rather 
than again be separated from him. 

" Help me. sweet ladies;" he said, to Rosalind and Ceiia : " help me 
to persuade this dear unreasonable against so wild a project. She knows 
not the risk of 'noyance that would be hers : she dreams not the difficul- 
ties, the perils, she would have to encounter, in so hazardous a position. 
I speak not merely of personal dangers. — her wife-errantry might give 
her courage to confront those ; but of the perils to her modesty, to her 
nice sense of propriety, which such a situation would entail. Besides. 
how could her husband perform his duty as a soldier, with so fruitful a 
.source of alarm ever at his side? The thought of her. and of her thou- 
sand perils, would make a coward of his heart, and take all virtue from 
his sword." 

" You bid her prove herself a worthy wife, rather than a fond wife ; 
— a hard task for a young wife, but one. which if she be a wise wife, she 
will learn early, that she may ever after be a happy wife ;" said Rosa- 
lind. 

-Theodore shall stay with his friends at Beaulieu :" said Celia ; 
'• until such time as Flora's husband can fetch her to St, Andre : though 
to say sooth. I hardly know whether I shift not some of those perils to 
modesty you talk of. from your wife's hazard, to mine own ; for my rep- 
utation hath already run some risks, I fear, in the favor shown to this 
pretty youth. His welcome here. — the intimacy between us. — hath 
given scandal occasion to hold a fan before her brazen face, and to whis- 
per a malicious aside. But I am content to abide the issue, if Theodore 
will still give us his company." 

•• Scandal would be content to hold her tongue, I fancy, could she 
but change the object of Theodore's intimacy : her malice would be dis- 
creetly dumb, were he to offer his gallantries to herself instead of to 
vou, coz :" said Rosalind. 

"Oh 3 I know whereabouts you are! Poor inadame la marquis;! 



346 ROSALIND AND CELIA ] 

She is your impersonation of scandal, with her lifted brows, and pursed 
lips ;" said Celia. 

Flora laughed. u I could find it in my heart to avenge the heart- 
'ache she gave me by her despiteful story of my husband's inconstancy. 
I've a shrewd notion you are right ; and that Theodore would have lit- 
tle difficulty in thawing the prude's icy punctilio. Betake yourself to 
your defences, madame de Villefort, for the youth hath a mind to try 
his bonne fortune." 

" Cry you mercy, good folk ! take me with you, I beseech you, or I 
am left darkling;" said Victor St. Andre. " Of whom are you speak- 
ing? Who is this marquise de Villefort? and how doth her name 
affect my Flora?" 

" Nay, she nowise affecteth Flora ; but we are much mistook, if she 
affect not Theodore passing well ;" said Eosalind. " She hath thrown 
glances of favour on him — furtive, but manifold. She grudges his atten- 
tions to others ; she hath fifty pretty feints to engage them towards her- 
self. She passes bickering comment on his deeds and words, in the 
company of others; but she makes amends by casting him sweet eye- 
liads when no one is looking. She twits and gibes his youth ; but con- 
trives to let him see she thinks him a very pretty fellow ; she some- 
times praises, sometimes makes a mock of his beardless bashfulness, 
thereby letting him understand that a little more saucy enterprise in 
his manner would not only be becoming, but welcome. She laughs at 
his shyness, and rallyingly commends his diffidence, showing that for- 
wardness would be encouraged, as well as forgiven. She pretends to 
censure his awkwardness, while she lets him know and feel that in her 
eyes he is never amiss." 

" I plead guilty to the truth of all this, on the part of madame la 
marquise ;" said the laughing Flora. " Should I not succeed, think you, 
were Theodore to attempt giving her a lesson in return for the pang she 
caused your poor little wife ?" 

" No doubt of it, from what I hear ; and I dare say she richly de- 
serves that you should stay and read her such a lesson ;" replied Victor. 

" Ah ! '• Stay !' That is what I cannot bear to do, since you must 
go !" said Flora ; all her smiles fading away at the thought. 



THE FRIENDS. 34? 

Just then, a man on horseback, whose uniform proclaimed him an 
aide-de-camp, rode up the park approach, towards the house ; but seeing 
the group on the terrace, he made his way across the sward in their 
direction. 

" It is a soldier ! He has seen you, Victor ! We are lost !" said 
Flora. 

" Fear nothing, love ; I told the general where he might hear of me, 
in case he should desire to summon me — to communicate with me." 

Flora's cheek grew paler and paler, as she saw the horseman deliver 
into her husband's hand the missive which was to call him from her; 
but she strove to be collected and firm, while eagerly perusing his face, 
as he read the letter. 

To her surprise she saw joy sparkle in his eyes. 

" Dear Flora ! See here ! Read this !" he exclaimed. " We need 
not part. Henceforth, my honor, my duty, are one with my delight. 
They alike call me to my home with you " 

The general's letter congratulated Victor on an amnesty which had 
just been ratified between the long-contending armies. He bade him 
take his new-made wife in triumph to St. Andre ; and there joyfully to 
celebrate the proclaimed peace, by proving himself as good and happy a 
citizen in this period of the realm's tranquillity, as he had hitherto shown 
himself to be a brave and faithful champion in its time of war. 

Rosalind and Celia were in the midst of offering their felicitations, 
when a visitor was announced, — madame la marquise de Villefort. 

" We will attend her in the saloon ;" said Celia, to the attendant. 
" Or rather tell madame la marquise, we are with some friends on the 
terrace, if she will do us the favor to join us here." 

" Now, master Theodore," said Rosalind, " muster all your forces. 
The lady is at hand, upon whom you are to try the courage of your im- 
pudence. Let it not fail you, for the love of true modesty. Her pride 
of prudery deserves a fall." 

Flora was so elate, so full of glee at the news she had just heard, 
that she could not by possibility have been in better humour for the 
gay task proposed. She played her part so well : she led the widow 



348 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

into such bewildering belief of her being struck with her; she entangled 
her in such a maze of banter, compliment, playfulness, adulation ; she 
so thoroughly impressed her with the notion of Theodore's enamoured 
fancy, and desperate liking, that the prude was fairly bewitched, — en- 
chanted, — charmed out of all her artificial frigidity, into the coquetry 
natural to her. She was trapped into seductive looks ; betrayed into 
alluring words ; her freezing reserve uuconsciously melted into bland- 
ishment ; her malice merged into kindness ; her sarcasms became covert 
flattery ; and her usual severity was insensibly exchanged for the most 
captivating softness. Her scruples were foregone : she lost sight of all 
her reserve. The strict decorum exacted from others, she forgot to ob- 
serve, when she herself became the object of admiration ; the rigid 
adherence to propriety, so often insisted on in judging imprudent wo- 
men, she left unheeded, when there was a pressing suitor in her own 
case. The rapture of finding that this youth was dazzled by her beauty, 
blinded her completely ; and his simulated passion proved an irresisti- 
ble bait to her vanity. The conventional prude stood confessed the 
native coquette. 

Rosalind, Celia. and Victor, quietly enjoyed this comedy, played off 
for their amusement by Flora ; they felt no compunction for the object 
of the plot, since she merited her unmasking. 

Towards the end of her lengthened visit, the marquise had admired 
some beautiful exotics, which filled a vase standing on the table of the 
saloon, whither they had adjourned from the terrace. 

" They are gathered from a plant, which my father's indulgence has 
placed in the conservatory here, for me ;" said Celia. " I will send your 
ladyship a branch of them, since your taste so approves them." 

'• Sweet princess, I am greatly beholden to your courtesy. But 
whom will you find, worthy to be their bearer 1 ? Such flowers as these, 
should have none other than hands of highest desert, and nicest charge ;" 
said the widow, looking full at Theodore. " No hireling page is fit to 
be entrusted with them. It should be some gentleman, whose refine- 
ment and good taste would ensure their safe conveyance." 

" I am sure my friend Victor St. Andre would have great pleasure 
in bringing them for your ladyship to Villefort ;" said Celia demurely. 



THE FRIENDS. 349 

" Rather call him your cousin's friend ;" replied the marquise with 
emphasis, though sinking her voice to a half whisper. The princess 
Rosalind is really unblushing in the display of her preference for mon- 
sieur St. Andre. You would do well to advise her, as a friend, to be 
more guarded in her conduct. So open a show of liking for a young 
man, is scarce seeming, in a young maiden of her years and rank. Her 
own dignity demands greater discretion. But to return to the flowers. 
If you yourself, my dear, can spare that other young gentleman from 
his perhaps imprudently close attendance on your steps, I would ask 
you to let him bring over your kind gift to Villefort. 'Twill give the 
youth consequence, you know, poor lad, to find himself the trusted en- 
voy between two ladies." 

"It will be received by him as valued encouragement, I doubt not, 
madam ;*' said Celia, with a smile\ 

' ; Jealous, poor little thing !" thought the marquise. 

When madam e de Villefort took her leave, Rosalind, Celia, Victor, 
and Theodore, all bore her company through the park, as far as the 
great gates, where she said her coach was awaiting her. 

Theodore and she, by mutual contrivance, kept side by side ; and as 
the party strolled on beneath the trees, these two gradually fell into 
such exclusive interchange of words and looks, that the others lingered 
some way behind, leaving them to themselves. 

" "I overheard your charming arrangement with the princess Celia, 
that I should be the favored bearer of your flowers ;" said Theodore to 
the marquise, with an animated look of gratitude and delight. " I 
could not misconstrue its generous condescension — its flattering import. 
Thus let me thank my goddess ;" and the youth raised her hand to his 
lips. il You intoxicate me with your goodness ; you transport me with 
your gracious indulgence ; do you indeed select me to bring those flow- 
ers to your house— to come to Villefort — to visit you — and alone? 
You will receive me alone ?" And Theodore acted the insinuating 
wooer with his eyes, to perfection. 

" These youths are so foolishly explicit ;" muttered the widow. Then 
she added aloud, with a tender glance : — ' ; Come ; and trust to my 



350 

friendship for you. I want to have your counsel respecting the best 
mode of arranging the princess's gift. So come early, that we may have 
daylight for our task, in the disposal of the flowers." 

" So marked a proof of confidence from your ladyship, deserves equal 
trust on mine. I will tell you a secret, madame la marquise ; one that 
concerns my future existence, — on which depends my very being. Have 
1 your permission to reveal it?' 1 

"Can I not perhaps guess it?" murmured the widow, with a lan- 
guishing look. 

" I think not ; you will never suspect me of having taken such a 
daring advantage of your kindness, — your encouragement." 

" Nay, speak out :" said the marquise, with a smile as unlike the 
forbidding austerity she had taught her lip to assume for its general 
wear, as a ripe cherry is to a wilted crab-apple. 

" Thus emboldened," stammered the blushing, but roguish-eyed 
Theodore, " I find courage to own to you that I am not what I seem j 
that I am, — that, in short, — I am — a — a — woman !" 

" A woman !" exclaimed the widow, with a gasping shriek. 

" Ay, madam, at your ladyship's service ;" said Flora, doffing her 
broad hat, and with it the mass of short black hair ; so that her own 
fair curls fell around her face, and down upon her shoulders, while she 
glanced into the prude's face with those smiling rogue's eyes of hers. 
" Command me in aught that can avail you. I would bring the flowers 
over to Villefort this evening — but I have an engagement to go with 
my husband to St. Andre. Nay, he should have brought the flowers, 
and enacted the part of your ladyship's adviser, which he would doubt- 
less have filled with far abler grace than Theodore, poor youth ; but, I 
know not. ' Men allow themselves strange licence.' you know. I, as 
his wife, you, as a severely virtuous lady, will think it best, perhaps, 
that he should keep his duty-appointment at St. Andre, instead of the 
pleasure-engagement, — the assignation, which you vouchsafed to me." 

"Assignation? Insolent! I know not what you mean, madam ;" 
said the marquise, as she flung from her, and advanced to step into her 
carriage, which by this time they had nearly reached. 



THE FRIENDS 351 

" Of course not, madam;" replied Flora. "None are so conveniently 
at a loss to discern a meaning, as you ladies of quick apprehension. 
Your squeamish purity sees a latent sense of evil in simplest words and 
deeds : but becomes dull as ignorance, where it suits you to understand 
nothing. Farewell, madame la marquise ! Commend me to Cher-ami; 
and may his innocent slaver continue to compensate you for the des- 
pised caresses of false men, and still falser youths !" 



"When their friends Victor and Flora quitted them for St. Andre, 
Rosalind and Celia also reft Beaulieu. and returned to court. 

About this time, Rosalind had her thoughts much drawn again to- 
wards her father. She learned where he had taken up his abode; she 
found it was the pleasant forest of Arden that he had chosen to make 
the scene of his exile ; she heard of the cheerful philosophy, the happy 
serenity which had become his. in this charming spot; she heard how 
he drew inspiriting lessons from everything that surrounded him in this 
woodland life of peace and contentment. She heard too. that many 
more of. his friends had lately joined him; that several lords had vol- 
untarily banished themselves to bear him company. His faithful cousin 
xlmiens was. of course, still with him. All this was of sweet comfort 
to her ; and yet she could not but occasionally suffer her heart to sink 
a little, as she felt the natural longing of a child to he with her father, 
that she might give him her loving care, cheer him with her company, 
and make him and herself happy in their mutual affection. 

Her uncle treated her very kindly ; although his feelings towards 
her were of a mingled complexion. He loved her for her own sake : he 
could appreciate her brilliant qualities ; he knew how much they added 
to tne lustre of his court : and he was therefore anxious to retain them 
there; he also liked her for his daughter's sake, who he knew tendered 
her no less dearly than her very self: but in addition to these favorable 
sentiments with which he regarded her, there lurked, besides, certain 
misgivings with respect to the place she held in popular esteem : a sort 
of jealousy of the people's commendation of her many virtues and ex- 



352 ROSALIND AND CELIA J 

cellences, and a kind of uneasy association of her presence with the in- 
justice she had done her absent father. Nevertheless, the prepossession 
had hitherto prevailed over the distrust ; which lay smothered, in self- 
unconscious existence, until some occasion might arise which should call 
it forth, into an open evidence of displeasure against her. 

The friendship between herself and Celia, had even increased with 
their growth, and strengthened with their added years. It had acquired 
the maturity and solidity of better knowledge of each other; and to- 
gether with this higher appreciation of the qualities of either had come 
a truer acquaintance with their own capabilities of loving. They were 
sisters in heart. Celia, in her generosity of soul, saw that in Rosalind's 
mind, which she delighted in, as something she gladly confessed supe- 
rior to her own powers of wit and fancy ; while Rosalind beheld in the 
affectionate gentleness of Celia's nature, that which she reverenced as 
above even intellectual gifts. The perfection of feminine attachment 
was theirs. 

But it yas under the impress of a passing shadow of regret con- 
cerning her father, that Rosalind, one day, seeming less gay # than was 
her wont, caused Celia to say : — '•'• I pray thee, sweet my coz, be merry P 

To which Rosalind answered : — " Dear Celia, I show more mirth 
than I am mistress of; and ivould you yet I ivere merrier ? Unless 
you could teach me to forget a banished fattier, you must not learn me 
how to remember any extraordinary pleasure" 



And now this story ceases, that it may have its proper termination 
in the play (be that, however, 'as you like it'!), and " end, in. true de- 
lights." 

1 

FINIS. 




TALE X. 

JULIET; THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 



" She doth teach the torches to burn brisht ! 
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night 
Like a rich jewel in>in Eihiop's ear : 
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! 
So shows a siowy dove trooping wilh crows, 
As yonder lady »'et her fellows -hows." 

Rumeo and Juliet. 



It was Lammas-eve. The breath of early August huug hot and sultry 
upon the scene. Not a leaf or a blossom stirred. The flowers in the 
garden, the fruit on the orchard-trees, yielded their incense to enrich its 
heavy-perfumed volume. The mingled scents of carnations, with their 
clove aroma : of fragrant jessamine, of delicious orange-blossom ; the 
faint languor of lilies, the matchless luxuriance of roses, the honeyed 
sweetness of woodbine : together with the fruity opulence of peach, nec- 
tarine, and mulberry, the musky smell from fig-tree and vine, and the 
redolence of the grape-clusters themselves, exhaled a steam of spicery 
that seemed to add voluptuous weight to the torpid atmosphere, which 
hung close, oppressive, motionless ; laden with odorous vapours. There 
was a hush, a pause, as of a mighty suspended breath. Within the Ve- 
rona garden, on the branch of a pomegranate-tree. — deep-nestled amid 
its profusion of scarlet blossoms. — sat a pair of snow-white doves ; their 
grain-like beaks joined in that close-wrestling kiss of their tribe, nearest 
allied in its pretty prerogative to the human caress. 



350 juliet ; 

All seemed preternaturally still. The sky looked dense, for all its 
glow of azure and golden ligkt. There were masses of sullen clouds, in 
the horizon, purple, crimson, gorgeous and sluggish, amid copper and 
emerald-hued back-grounds ; bright bars and edges of dazzling splen- 
dour, were crossed and interwoven with broad flushes of rose color, that 
stretched up athwart the heavens. The distant mountains looked of a 
deep violet ; dark, yet sharply defined against the leaden murkiness of 
the sky, in the quarter away from tne westering sun. There was a sin- 
ister beauty in all ; in the rich colors of the firmament, as" in the volup 
tuous stillness of the atmosphere. 

Thunder muttered, low and remote, its solemn music ; sternly tre- 
mulous, it seemed to usher in reluctant doom. A few heavy drops fell, — 
Nature's tears for fate decreed. As closed the beauty of this fair Italian 
summer evening in storm and devastation, so was to end the ill-starred 
pair of Italian lovers' brief joys, in despair, destruction, death. Yet, 
like the beauty of Italian summers, renewed with the returning sun, the 
love of those Italian lovers shall endure in immortal light, casting into 
shadow the transitory darkness of their early grave. So long as the sun 
of Italy and the world shall shine, Italy and the world will cherish the 
memory of that Italian love-story, — the love-story of the World. 

Sudden, in the very midst of the slumberous pause, a vivid flash, 
accompanied by a burst of thunder, rent the air. The birds were smit- 
ten from the tree ; their snowy feathers scattered to the ground : the 
rain poured forth its torrents ; the trees bent and waved beneath the 
fury of the electric wind, which sprang up in abrupt and violent gusts, 
hurling all to and fro in agitation and tumult, where late had been naught 
but mute repose ; the heads of the flowers were cast to the earth, smirched 
and torn : the leaves were swept from the boughs, and whirled away ; 
the mould of the beds, the gravel of the paths, were snatched up by the 
violence of the rain ; the lightning flung its scathing glare abroad and 
afar ; and the thunder with scarce any intermission. 

But at the moment the bolt fell, which struck the two white doves, 
a little human dove fluttered into existence, — drawing its first panting 
breath in this world of passionate emotion. Juliet was born. 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 357 

The birth of this child was the subject of great rejoicing to the house 
of Capulet. Her father was. by direct descent, and by wealth, the chief 
representative of this one of Verona's most illustrious families. He had 
been anxious for an heir, to perpetuate its dignity ; and though he was 
a little disappointed, when the child proved to be a girl, yet he consoled 
himself with an heiress rather than with no descendant at all : and more- 
over, he had the supplementary comfort at looking forward to a time, 
when, by the birth of a brother, the heiress's claims might yet devolve 
upon an heir. 

The lord Capulet, when a young man, had busied himself rather 
with his own personal enjoyment of his birth-right, than with any care 
of its honor and dignity : far less, with any solicitude regarding the 
provision of a future successor to its rights and privileges. But as he 
advanced towards middle age. these considerations struck him in the 
light of a duty. He felt that it rested with him. as head of the house, 
to see that its state was maintained, that its influence and power among 
Yerona's magnates was preserved undiminished: that its name should in 
nowise be suffered to risk decreasing estimation, decadence, or extinction. 
He could not conceal from himself, that his own course had hitherto 
been one little calculated to add to the repute of the noble name he 
bore. He knew that his career had been idle, dissolute : profitless to 
himself and to others; a mere pursuit of pleasure, without one serious 
consideration as to the sources whence pleasure can alone be truly de- 
rived. He had sought to steep himself in luxury, without a thought 
given to the securing of happiness ; he had revelled in passing gratifi- 
cations, to the utter neglect of a solid, a genuine, a permanent satis- 
faction. His mind was a void, for he had taken no pains to store it ; 
his heart was a blank, for he had never cultivated its best emotions. 
He passed for a generous young man ; for he had plenty of money, which 
he spent freely. He had never met with trouble or vexation to cross him ; 
therefore he had the name of being a very good-natured young man. 
He was full of lively gossip, proficient in all the scandal of the day, 
versed in all the talk, the practice, the intrigue, of society ; and of 
course was pronounced by society to be a most accomplished young man. 
He was, in fact, but a good-humoured voluptuary. 



358 juliet ; 

He had just awakened to something like a conviction that he ought 
to reform his way of life (perhaps he had become satiated with the 
futile husbandry, called sowing wild oats) ; that it was high time to 
settle down into a respectable personage ; that it would be well to think 
of family honor, and marry; of the family name, and become a father; 
of the family dignity, and renounce his bachelor establishment ; when 
these virtuous considerations were confirmed by the advent of an heir 
to another noble Veronese house, which had always rivalled his own in 
distinction. The birth of a son to the house of Montague, determined 
the chief of the house of Capulet to lose no time in wooing and wed- 
ding, that he also might have a legitimate successor to inherit his title 
and dignities. He was casting about in his thoughts who, of all the 
youthful fair ones of Verona, he should select for the honor of being his 
partner; when he received a summons from a dying friend, conjuring 
him to come and receive his parting breath, together with a sacred 
legacy he had to bequeath. 

This friend was a gentleman of Ferrara, named Egidio. He had 
been a soldier of distinguished gallantry ; and indeed, it was of a hurt, 
mortal, though lingering, received in his last battle, that he was now 
dying. The friendship between Capulet and the Ferrarese officer had 
originated in a service which the latter had rendered the former some 
years before, in Venice, on the occasion of a youthful frolic ; when, in 
some night-brawl, Capulet had been surrounded by opponents, and might 
have fallen beneath their swords and poniards, but for the timely aid of 
the young soldier. Since then, the intimacy had been, at various times, 
renewed, as opportunity served ; Egidio coming to Verona, whenever 
an interval in his military duties permitted his spending a season of 
gaiety there. 

Of later years these visits had been rarer ; and for some time pre- 
vious to the final summons, Capulet had almost ceased to hear from his 
friend. 

Now, however, he lost no time in hastening to him ; shocked into 
gravity and reflection, at the thought of so soon beholding one, — whom he 
had never seen otherwise than in the height of health, hilarity, and en- 
joyment, — prostrate on a bed of death. 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 350 

Subdued into this unwonted mood, he arrived at the house, to which 
he had been directed as his friend's abode. He was surprised to find it 
in go poor a quarter of the town ; and still more surprised to find it 
one of the most mean-looking among the poor places there. He found 
that it was, in fact, a lodging-house ; for, on entering the room whieh 
opened into the street. — merely screened from it by a dingy curtain. — he 
saw a basket-maker, surrounded by his wife and family, just sitting 
down to their noontide meal of polenta. These good people answered 
his inquiries after his friend Egidio, by at first shaking their heads, as 
knowing no such person ; but on his happening to drop something of 
his dying state, they exclaimed, ." Ah, the poor sick gentleman — the 
wounded soldier — surely ; he lodges here — su di sopra." added they, 
pointing up a rickety staircase, that led to the floor above. 

Gapulet, his heart sinking lower and lower, at each step he took, 
when he came to the top landing (it was but a single-storied house), 
paused to take breath : more from the oppression of sadness, than from 
the exertion of mounting. At length he mustered composure to knock 
softly at the door which presented itself. It was as softly opened. 
The half light which the interior of an Italian house always preserves 
during the principal hours of clay, in careful exclusion of the outward 
glare, scarcely permitted Capulet to discern more than the general ap- 
pearance of the figure that stood in the doorway, when opened. 

It was that of a young girl, who, before Capulet could utter more 
than the few first words of his enquiry, exclaimed : — " Ah, you are the 
friend he expects — -longs to see ! Come, come to him ; he feared he 
should never survive to speak to you, yet said he could not die until he 
had spoken to you. Oh, come, come !" 

The girl, clasping her hands, and looking earnestly into his face, 
seemed to forget that she herself was the only delay to his advance, 
r yhile she stood there imploring him to enter. But her whole manner 
was wild, and agitated, as if she were beside herself with alarm and 
anxiety. 

Capulet attempted to speak a few soothing words ; then whispered, 
• : Lead me to him. Where is he V 



360 juliet; 

The young girl led Capulet into an inner room, where, on a raisera* 
He pallet, la}- Egidio. 

" My poor friend ? Is it thus I see you again ?" sobbed Capulet. 

i: I thought you would not fail me !" exclaimed the dying man. i: And 
yet. friendships made in the spring of youthful gaiety and folly, endure 
not always through a season of sadness. But you are come ! You are 
come ! Let me look upon your face — let me assure myself you are here. 
Put back the curtain from the window, Angelica mia," added he, to the 
young girl, " that the light may fall full upon him ; I cannot have the 
comfort too certainly, of knowing him to be here." 

" You are exhausting yourself by talking ;" said Capulet, as the hag- 
gard face of Egidio showed pale and ghastly in the stream of sunshine 
that was admitted, while the features worked with excitement, in eager- 
ly perusing those of his friend. " Be composed. I am here : here for 
as long as you wish. Do not speak farther till you are better able to 
bear the exertion." 

c; That will never be — I am better able now, than I could have hoped. 
Let me tell you all I have to tell, while I have strength. Even this 
poor remnant ma} 7 not be mine long." 

He gasped, and sank back upon his pallet ; while a passion of tears 
and sobs burst from the young girl. The dying man's eyes were beut 
mournfully upon her. 

' : : Tis of her I would speak — my poor Angelica — my child. It is the 
thought of leaving her alone in her young beauty to fight the rough fight 
with the world — ever ready to deal its hardest blows against the unpro- 
tected, the innocent, of her sex, — which makes it so bitter a thing to 
me to die ;" said Egidio. 

' : My father !" was the broken exclamation of the sobbing girl, as 
she stood gazing upon him with clasped and outstretched hands, in the 
helpless bewildered agony of manner that had been hers throughout. 

i; I knew not that you had a daughter, my friend," said Capulet. look- 
ing upon her with sympathy, yet with a certain curiosity to see whether 
she possessed the amount of perilous beauty, her father had deplored. 
He could not help a passing thought of the partiality of a parent's love, 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 361 

which will exaggerate into loveliness dangerous to its possessor, mere 
comeliness of youth, and a passable set of features. 

It is true, that these latter were swollen and distorted by grief ; her 
dark eyes were clouded ; their long lashes were heavy and matted with 
tears : the lids were red and distended ; there were two purple rings be- 
neath, telling of distress of mind and body, both sorrow and want ; the 
cheeks were wan and bleared with weeping ; the lips were colorless ; and 
the tall figure was not only bent, but gaunt, with watching and want of 
food. She looked the young girl, whose beauty, in the very spring of 
its developement, — when most needing fostering care to cherish it into 
the perfection proper to it, — was nipped and marred by misery. 

A man of finer imagination, of a truer heart, of a nobler soul, of a 
higher nature than Capulet, might have seen something of what lay 
obscured from the superficial view of the man accustomed to judge of 
womanly beauty only as it is seen dressed for admiration, for meretri- 
cious display and allurement ; but to his eyes she merely presented the 
image of an overgrown girl, with a face spoiled by crying, and a figure 
injured by hardship. 

- It was one of my many weaknesses," said Egidio, in answer to 
Capulet's last words, " to keep you in ignorance of my marriage. I 
could not bear that you, the witness and sharer of so many of my 
bachelor freaks, should know that I was in fact a married man ; that 
you. the partaker of so many of my youthful follies, should learn that 
I possessed the onerous ties — for then we affected to consider them 
such — of a wife and children. I could not endure that to you, in 
whose eyes I had always appeared the gay, free, unembarrassed young 
soldier, I should become known as, in reality, the man of cares, of im- 
paired fortunes, the thoughtful husband, the anxious father." 

Egidio paused, with a deep sigh , then resumed — - ; My wife was of 
an illustrious Bolognese family. I had met her in one of the cam- 
paigns produced by civil war in central Italy, which brought me into 
her vicinity ; and knowing that hei proud house would never sanction 
an alliance with a soldier of fortune, though of gentle birth, I found 
means to persuade her into a clandestine union. Her family never for 



362 juliet ; 

gave the disgrace which they conceived she had brought upon them ; 
and their inflexibility broke her heart. She bore unmurmuringly the 
change from her old life of distinction and luxury at Bologna, to a life 
of privation and obscurity at Ferrara, — for she loved her husband. 
But her gentle nature could not endure the severance from all ties of 
kindred and of former childhood home, and she visibly drooped and 
pined away." 

Egiclio again paused and attempted to wipe the gathering damps from 
his forehead ; which his daughter perceiving, sprang forward, and bent 
over him, to aid his trembling hand. 

" She left me with two children ;" resumed the dying man, with a 
stern look settling upon his face ; the elder has been a constant source 
of shame and misery to me. My son ; he has, ever since he was of an 
age to know vice from virtue, been devoted to the pursuit of the former. 
His childhood was deceit ; his boyhood was wild and reckless ; his 
youth has been incessant profligacy. My slender resources have been 
drained to supply his excesses. His home has been impoverished, and 
more than myself have frequently foregone a meal to furnish his spend- 
thrift exaction ; for we yielded all, in the hope of reclaiming him. In my 
daughter — my Angelica — I have had ever one pure source of comfort ; 
it is only now, now that I must leave her exposed to " all the harms 
of helpless youth and beauty — I feel bitterness mingle with my joy, my 
pride in her." 

The father's face was convulsed, and he writhed in anguish, as he 
looked upon her ; while hers was buried in her hands. Suddenly he 
turned again towards Capulet, and said : — " I must utter it — I must 
speak the hope in which I sent for you. My friend, it was the trust 
that your generous heart would not hesitate to bestow the sole comfort 
mine is capable of receiving, which made me entreat you to come 
hither and accept this sacred charge. Save her, my friend ! Take her 
to your guardian care. Be her protector, her husband !" 

" Marry her ! She is a mere child ! Would you have me marry 
her ?" exclaimed Capulet. 

" She is of gentle — nay of noble birth. Her mother's blood ran in 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. SbS 

the veins of one of Bologna's proudest houses. My own descent no 
humbler. I know your generosity of soul too well to think that her 
poverty can be any obstacle. Her many virtues, let her father avouch, 
who has known them proved and tried, throughout her young but ardu- 
ous life : of her beauty, your own eyes will tell you. his partiality does 
not speak too highly." 

" The dying man turned his eyes fondly upon his child ; who still 
stood absorbed in grief, hiding her face within her clasped hands. 

At this moment the door of the apartment was softly pushed open, 
and a friar, whose garments spoke him to be of the Franciscan order 
came into the room. 

His entrance aroused the young girl, who sprang forward to meet 
him, exclaiming : — " welcome, good holy man ! your advent always 
brings comfort to my dear father ! Welcome, good father Ambrosio ! 
Welcome !" 

" Holy St. Francis be praised ! I bring comfort indeed !" said the 
friar, advancing to the bedside of the dying man. " One of our brother- 
hood, just arrived from Bologna, brings tidings of the decease of your 
late wife's father, the count Agostino ; who. it seems, in the hour of his 
death, rescinding the harsh sentence he had formerly uttered against her, 
pronounced a forgiving blessing on her memory, and acknowledged her 
issue as his grandchildren, and his joint heirs. Since all the rest of his 
descendants have, by a fatality, died off in the course of the last few 
years," continued father Ambrosio, " the inheritance of your son and 
daughter will be considerable. Cheerly, my son ; let these good tidings 
give you health and strength, to revive." 

'• I am past revival, good father ;" murmured Egidio ; " but all 
the joy I can receive from your news. I heartily thank your goodness 
for." 

"Bender thy thanks where they are due, my son — to Heaven : that 
hath ordained things thus for comfort and blessing in thy parting hour :" 
said Ambrosio. 

" Comfort and blessing, truly ;" said Egidio, turning his dying eyes 
upon Capulet. " I may now offer to my generous friend's acceptance a 



364 juliet ; 

rich heiress, in lieu of a poor orphan ; but, save in the article of worldly 
wealth, she is scarce more a treasure than before ; her own worth is her 
best dower. Give us your help, holy father ; that I may see my child 
safe-bestowed on my dearest friend. Reach me thy hand, my Angelica. 
Weep not, my girl ; thy father is about to yield thee to the loving 
custody of one who will be hardly less fond than he himself has been. 
Thy hand, also, my friend ; and now, good father Ambroslo, do us 
thine office in making man and wife of these two dearest to my heart." 

Capulet, superficial, unreflective, tolerably good-humoured, and easy- 
dispositiuned, — from a dislike of the trouble of opposing, or arguing a 
settled point. — yielded, almost unconsciously, to the decisive manner in 
which Egidio had assumed that his marriage would be the best possible 
arrangement for the happiness of all parties. He saw that the dying 
man had set his heart upon it ; he heard the young girl's goodness and 
beauty extolled ; he knew her to be of high lineage ; he found that she 
was to be the inheritrix of a large fortune ; and all these combined cir- 
cumstances, together with the unwillingness to thwart his expiring friend, 
worked confusedly upon his not unkind nature to induce him into a sort 
of mechanical compliance with what was so completely taken for granted. 
He conformed, almost without knowing he did so ; he assented, hardly 
aware that his consent had not been formally asked. He found it was 
an understood thing, ere he had time to demand of himself whether he 
indeed wished this. He had a vague notion that he had intended to 
marry and settle about this time ; and that he might therefore as well 
gratify his dying friend's wishes, marry the heiress of one of Bologna's 
most illustrious houses, and take to wife a virtuous young girl who was 
by no means ugly. 

With some such floating thoughts, Capulet allowed the father to place 
his child's hand within his. His own good feeling, and ready gallantry, 
prompted some kindly whispered words, to the drooping figure beside him, 
as, in obedience to her father's signal, the young girl took her station 
there, with her appointed husband, before the good friar. 

She had appeared, throughout, like one in a bewildered dream ; act- 
ing involuntarily, and by no imoulse of her own ; regardless of external 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 365 

circumstances, excepting as they affected her dying father, upon whom 
her whole soul seemed concentrated. But at the moment friar Ambrosio 
opened his book, and stood opposite, to marry them, the young girl raised 
her eyes, and fixed them with a searching look, full upon those of Capu- 
let. It was but for an instant ; but even in that short space, there might 
be read eager enquiry, appeal, and trust, expressed with all candour, but 
without a spark of immodesty in its full regard. The limited sight of 
the man of pleasure, could not convey to him all that there was of reliant, 
of touchingly hopeful, in this single look ; but it enabled him to observe 
that her eyes were more beautiful in colour and shape, and far more 
expressive than he had yet thought them to be. To a man of more re- 
fined perceptions, there would have been eloquent indication of a newly- 
awakened prepossession in his favor, arising out of confidence in his 
honor and good qualities ; he would have beheld something directly ap- 
pealing to the better part of his self-love — to his consciousness of worth — 
to his most generous emotions : while the gay, surface-skimming man 
of the world, saw nothing more than a girlish, unpractised betrayal of 
liking. 

But the newly-discovered undoubted beauty of her eyes, together 
with this symptom of innocent preference, won extremely upon Capulet, 
and made rapid strides in his good graces ; so that by the time friar 
Ambrosio had come to the end of the marriage-service, the bridegroom 
was internally and sincerely congratulating himself upon the bride he 
had so unexpectedly won. The final words were spoken ; and Capulet 
was about to crown the ceremony by turning towards Angelica, and 
claiming her as his wife with a nuptial kiss, when he was startled by a 
piercing scream which burst from her lips as she sprang from his 
embrace, and cast herself upon the dead body of her father. Egidio 
had breathed his last, in the very moment of beholding his sole earthly 
wish fulfilled. 



Capulet's first care, after consigning the remains of his friend to the 
grave, was to remove his new-made wife from the scene of her sorrow. 



366 juliet ; 

Many reasons induced him to defer taking her home to Verona. Ha 
wished that time should do its kind office in restoring her native good 
looks to his young bride ere he should present her to his friends and 
kindred. He thought that an intermediate change of scene would do 
much to effect a diversion in her grief, and towards giving her an air 
of ease and dignity in her new position as the wife of a nobleman, before 
she appeared on the spot where she was to assume her rank and title. 
He trusted that his own precept and example would greatly tend to 
form her manners, and polish into unconstraint and self-possession, any 
girlish bashfulness that might naturally be expected as the result of her 
hitherto secluded, — nay, obscure mode of existence. He resolved, there- 
fore, that previously to their repairing to Verona, he would take her on 
a visit to Bologna ; where he might, at the same time, establish her 
claims as the heiress of count Agostino. 

The journey, the fresh air, the variety of new objects, the good- 
humoured attentions of her husband, the total change from her late life 
of monotony, denial, and wearing anxiety, to one of comfort, amusement, 
and comparative excitement, operated powerfully and speedily upon the 
impressionable temperament of Angelica. The young girl recovered 
her spirits, her beauty ; which soon gave token that it was originally of 
no common order, although privation and care had dulled its lustre for 
a time. Her complexion resumed its natural brilliancy ; her large dark 
eyes shone with animation ; her lips recovered their rich vermilion hue ; 
and her tall figure showed in all its rounded yet elegant proportions, 
erect, and full of stately grace. 

Her husband, delighted to find her beauty develope and increase 
with her restored health and spirits, spared no pains to cheer and enliven 
her. His habits of society had gifted him with a flow of sprightly con- 
versation ; his tastes had led him to cultivate a tone of gallantry, and 
an agreeable manner in his address to women : to this young girl, 
therefore, who had never seen any man, save her father, with even a 
pretension to the attributes of refinement, Capulet appeared the finished 
gentleman. He fulfilled her ideal of all that was attractive in manly 
beauty. In her eyes he was the perfection of chivalrous bearing, of 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 367 

noble seeming. From the moment when be bad appeared on tbe thresh- 
old of their poor home, bringing peace and comfort to her father's heart, 
— that father whose words had so often painted him to her in the partial 
words of a friend's enthusiasm. — he had become to her the impersona- 
tion of all that was grand and admirable in man. His rich attire, his 
air of conscious rank, his advantages of person, combined to impress her 
imagination. She looked up to him as a superior being. His very 
maturity of years gave him added consequence with the young inexpe- 
rienced girl. He was then at the period of time when every added 
twelvemonth is apt to detract something from a man's good looks. — the 
very age which is often, in girlish eyes, the prime of manly life. Added 
to this, were his present good-natured attempts to win her from her 
depression, his lively conversation, his gaiety of manner, all heightened 
in their effect by the tone of good breeding and conventional grace, 
which his social training had superinduced : what wonder, therefore, 
that the young lady Capulet grew daily more enamoured of the husband 
to whom a father's provident care, and her own singular good fortune 
had united her ? For some time she lived in a blissful dream. — lapped 
in the delicious sense of the surpassingly happy fate which had suddenly 
become hers. 

Her first awakening was a strange start of misgiving which she felt, 
on hearing her lord express his extreme exultation at the news that 
greeted them when they reached Bologna.* It was discovered, on open- 
ing the count Agostino's will, that he had. by some means, come to the 
knowledge of his grandson's profligate courses : and that in consequence, 
he had declared, in a codicil lately appended to the original testamen- 
tary document, the absolute disinheritance of Egidio's son. while he 
constituted the daughter. Angelica, sole heiress. The terms in which 
the count disowned and disinherited the young man. were bitter and 
absolute ; declaring that no one. upon whose honor the lightest taint of 
suspicion had once breathed, should ever bear the unblemished name 
and illustrious title which he had himself received as a spotless and 
sacred trust from a long descent of worthy ancestry. He formally 
annulled all claims of his. or his possible heirs ; solemnly vesting all 



368 juliet ; 

rights in the person of his granddaughter Angelica, as sole representa- 
tive of their ancient house. 

Capulet's unreserved demonstration of delight on hearing this impor- 
tant increase to his young wife's wealth and consequence, gave her the 
first uneasy sensation of doubt lest her husband's regard for her, might 
be inferior to her own for him. It was the first of a long train of doubts 
that arose to haunt her, thenceforth, with their spectral shadow. She 
could not help calling to mind, that, before friar Ambrosio had entered 
their poor room, bringing the news of her claims to be considered an 
heiress to both rank and fortune, the lord Capulet haa never signified 
his assent to her father's proposal of making her his wife. She could 
not but remember that even her own parent had admitted this as an 
additional reason for urging his friend to marry her at once. Could it 
be that he had no individual preference for her? That he would not 
have accepted her, had she been no other than the poor orphan girl .he 
first saw her on the point of becoming ? Would she have been rejected, 
had it not been for her title to wealth and a birthright equal to his own? 
Had then, her own poor beauty no attraction of itself for him? It was 
but too likely, — so her distrustful heart answered, — that a man so 
noble, so gifted, so endowed with every natural and adventitious advan- 
tage, should look down with indifFerence, if not with disdain, upon an 
alliance so far beneath what he had a right to expect. She now remem- 
bered, with the distinctness ©f an embittered mind, intent upon collect- 
ing confirmations of its own misgivings, Capulet's words: — "She is a 
mere child ! Would you have me marry her?" They had at the time 
fallen upon her sense of hearing, — dulled with wretchedness, absorbed 
with fears for her father, and employed in listening to every moan, 
every dying accent of his, — as meaningless in themselves, and of slight 
consequence to her ; but now they came back to her thought with a 
vivid and terrible import. He would not have wedded a poor unformed 
girl — a mere child. He would have rejected her as wholly unsuited to, 
and unworthy of him. " Rejected !" It was a bitter thought. " Re- 
jected I" Her proud spirit, — for with all her sincere admission of self 
inferiority to him she loved, she yet had much sensitive pride, the pride 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. db'j 

of womanhood, — writhed beneath the impression, that, had he been per- 
mitted a choice, he would have " rejected " her That had he followed 
the first impulse of his heart, he would have rejected one who had so 
little to recommend her in outward appearance ; that had he been 
allowed time for reflection, and for the exercise of his better judgment, 
he would have surely refused, rejected her. But no. he had been hur- 
ried into a decision ; his kindest sympathies were enlisted in his own 
despite. by the urgency of her father ; and he had yielded, partly from 
unwillingness to cross his dying friend, partly perhaps from the consi- 
deration of a prospective hope, which was now more than confirmed by 
her increased heritage. . 

All these tormenting doubts beset her with renewed force, when she 
arrived with her husband in Verona. She saw him courted and admired 
in his own circles, flattered, followed ; she saw his society sought, his 
opinions consulted, his patronage solicited. She saw him treated with 
the distinction due to the head of one of the first families in his native 
city; and more than ever she drew mortifying comparisons between his 
assured manners and her own deficiencies. She dreaded that she was 
awkward, ignorant. She thought she could perceive in him a look of 
anxiety lest she should commit herself, by some inadvertence when he 
presented her to his friends ; she fancied she could trace a look of mor- 
tification at any want of ease, good-breeding, or .usage of society on her 
part: — at anything that betrayed her having known a humbler position 
than the one she now occupied. The mere dread of these things 
engendered the very evil they anticipated. They made her embarrassed, 
and ill at ease. She felt herself constrained, and showing to little 
advantage ; and a thousand times she asked herself how he could admire 
one so full of imperfections, — so inferior in all that distinguished him. 
The more the sense of her own defects gained upon her, the more her 
love and admiration for him grew. But in proportion with her worship 
of her husband ; s superiority, and consciousness of her own little likeli- 
hood of attracting his regard in return, was the proud reserve with 
which she gradually learned to guard all these feelings from observa- 
tion. She taught the fond attachment she felt towards him to lie con- 



370 juliet; 

cealed beneath a calm, — not to say a cold exterior. She allowed the 
deep consciousness of her own inferiority, to assume the outward aspect 
of dignified, if not haughty, composure. 

A superficial observer like Capuiet was not likely to read the incon- 
sistencies, and wayward emotions of a young girl's heart ; and he soon 
came to look upon her as just the sort of woman he could have wished 
his wife to be. — handsome, lofty-mannered, somewhat passionless per- 
haps, but undoubtedly lady-like, and perfectly fitted to fill the high sta- 
tion to which she was entitled both by birth and marriage. 

There was another subject that secretly agitated the heart of the 
young lady Capuiet. Her brother's errors had not been able to estrange 
him from her affection. She still indulged a fond recollection of him in 
those early childhood times, when they had been playmates together, 
and when she had no idea that he was not as innocent in thought as she 
herself. Even his subsequent course of wildness, had been unknown 
to her in its worst features ; and as for the many self-denials it had 
exacted from herself no less than from her parents, they had but served 
to produce in her that feeling of compunction apt to arise in a heart 
which would willingly love where it cannot esteem ; a feeling akin to 
tenderness, in its affectionate pity for the object of so much unavail- 
ing sacrifice. She generously regretted her brother's exclusion from a 
share of the heritage which had so unexpectedly fallen to her lot; and 
a thousand times she wished she knew where he was, that she might be- 
seech him to accept the portion which should have been his. She thought 
how all-important this sum might now be to his welfare ; and over and 
over she mused of how she might hit upon some means of learning 
where he was, how situated, and how she could best convey relief and 
comfort to him. 

Once when she had dropped a few words, attempting to consult her 
husband on the subject, he had checked her from ever recurring to it 
again, by some worldly remark uttered in a light tone, touching the un- 
advisability of stirring the question of a poor relation, likely rather to 
reflect discredit, and bring trouble on them, should he ever come to 
light, than to produce either benefit or pleasure by his reappearance. 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 37 1 

There was a grand entertainment at the Scaligeri palace, in honor 
of the coming of age of the young prince, Escalus. All the nobility of 
Verona were present ; and many distinguished members of the most 
illustrious families from other Italian courts, had been invited, in 
honor of the occasion. Capulet, and his beautiful young wife, were of 
course among the former ; and it gratified his pride not a little to see 
the admiration excited by her appearance, — strikingly handsome — even 
amidst so brilliant an assemblage of all that was loveliest in person and 
most magnificent in attire. The dazzling fairness of her skin was 
heightened by the black dress she still wore in memory of her father. 
The amplitude of its skirts fell in rich folds around her stately figure ; 
while its otherwise shapely adjustment permitted the rounded grace of 
her white arms, and the slender proportions of her waist, to be seen to 
full advantage. It was closed at the bosom by a clasp gemmed with 
diamonds; while round her classically shaped head, and set amidst hair 
of the same jet hue as her fobe, was a circlet of like jewels of the 
purest water. She looked the true Italian lady : there was the sim- 
plicity of good taste conspicuous even in the costliness of her array. 

Capulet's judgment in feminine charms was no less discriminating 
than fastidious ; and he knew that his own wife need yield to none of 
the young beauties then assembled in such star-like profusion. He 
took pleasure, amidst all his bustle of receiving and dispensing ameni- 
ties -himself, in noting the effect she produced upon others; and whilst 
he seemed only alive to the gaiety of the general scene, was in secret 
enjoying the impression produced by her beauty. It cast a reflected 
glory and credit upon himself, to be possessed of so universally-admired 
a young creature. But he was one of those men, who think it not pru- 
dent to let a wife perceive too much of the satisfaction derived from the 
contemplation of her charms, in their effect either upon himself or upon 
others ; such men deem it safer not to trust womanly discretion with the 
power involved in the knowledge of this secret ; and consequently are 
apt to indulge themselves with it privately and exclusively. Lady 
Capulet. therefore, was likely to perceive little or nothing of the true 
state of her husband's feelings towards her ; and meantime she con- 



S72 juliet ; 

tinned to form her own conjectures on the subject, imagining his in- 
difference, and believing that it was the natural result of her own in- 
feriority. Hitherto this had been a dull, saddened feeling ; rather a 
passive regret, than an active emotion. Now, however, it was to be 
roused into all the poignancy of a real suffering, a strong passion, — 
jealousy, with a definite object. She had felt a mournful resignation, a 
deep dejection and self-mistrust, a sort of acquiescent sorrow in the 
slight regard she fancied herself capable of exciting in her husband's 
heart, in return for the warmth of love she was conscious dwelt in hers 
towards him. awaiting only his ardor to call forth its manifestation: 
but when once she thought she beheld another able to inspire that at- 
tachment which she herself despaired of obtaining, her resignation be- 
came anguish ; her apathy, her dejection, her misgivings, were changed 
for resentment, and a wild sense of injury. 

She had been dancing a measure with a Florentine of royal blood, 
when, as her princely partner led her to her seat, lady Capulet saw her 
husband engaged in earnest talk with one whom she had never before 
seen — a young lady, surpassingly beautiful, on whose animated coun- 
tenance, beamed an expression of the most fond interest in what Capulet 
was uttering. Her eyes were fixed on his, her lips were parted, and 
slightly trembling, while she seemed to be absolutely drinking in his 
words, which he was breathing forth in a low under-tone of confidence. 
As lady Capulet approached, she heard her husband's concluding words, 
as he made a slight movement of his hand towards the bosom of his 
vest : ' : Not now ; we shall be observed. But rely upon me, dearest 
lady. Trust in one who is wholly devoted to your sweet service. Trust 
me, dearest Giacinta." The lady looked in his face with her eager eyes, 
and whispered : — Kindest friend, I do !'.' 

Not only was the look visible, but the words were distinctly audible 
to lady Capulet, though the full red lips softly formed, rather than ut- 
terd them. She felt a sudden glow mount into her own cheeks, at a 
familiarity, and ease of confidence, on the part of this young lady, 
which she was conscious her own intercourse with her husband had 
Dever yet assumed. She instinctively drew back, that she might net 



THE WHITE DOVE OP VERONA. 373 

disturb them by her approach ; but she allowed herself to take refuge 
in the draperied recess of a window not far distant, whence she could 
still observe them. 

She fed her misery by noticing the undoubted beauty of the lady. 
She drew mortifying comparisons between her and herself. She con- 
trasted those golden tresses with her own dark ones. She saw how 
glowing, how sparkling with animation that fair countenance was, and 
felt how pale and distorted her own face must be, by the emotions that 
agitated her heart. She looked at the spotless white, girdled with a 
zone of rubies, while a single damask rose lurked amid the profusion of 
sunny curls ; and she thought how radiant it all shone, against her own 
swart robes. She saw the appealing glance, the look so full of fond re- 
liance, so expressive of confidence and preference, and her heart kindled 
as she saw them oent on him, whom she herself never felt encouraged to 
regard face to face with any such unreserve and open eloquence of look. 
Still more did her inmost soul stir, to think of the effect such looks 
must needs produce upon him towards whom they were directed : and 
to trace upon his countenance the actual reflex of their effect. She saw 
his eyes respond to the tenderness that beamed in Giacinta's, and yet 
with a sort of covert, stealthy air, as though he would fain not attract 
observation, towards their mutual good understanding. He continued 
his low-voiced conversation with her : but seemed to keep a guard on 
his manner, lest it should betray too much of exclusive devotion. 

As all this presented itself to her sight, lady Capulet heard her 
husband's name pronounced by some one near her. 

" Yes, that is lord Capulet ;" said the speaker, — one of two young 
gentlemen who were lounging near to where she stood ; " he is one of our 
noted gallants here in Verona, though his age might warrant a little more 
sobriety on his part, and a little more indifference on that of the objects 
of his gallantries. Besides, he is lately married ; and he might learn to 
confine the sphere of his attentions to their legitimate orbit. His wife 
is a glorious creature ! Such star-like eyes ! A very goddess ! A 
young Juno ! I'll wager now, he would think himself a monstrous ill- 
used gentleman, should any poor fellow with less mature, but perhaps 



374 juliet ; 

none the less handsome pretensions, allow himself to make her the object 
of such court as he is paying to yonder beauty." 

"Who is she?" asked the other. It was the very question lady 
Capulet had been feverishly repeating to herself, and thirsting to have 
answered. 

" She is the lady Griacinta ; a wealthy heiress ; countess of Arionda 
in her own right. She is an orphan ; no one to control her choice in 
marriage : and all Verona are dying to know upon whom she will bestow 
her estates, her rich dower, and — beyond all other treasures, herself. 
It was thought that this very lord Capulet was laying close siege to her 
heart, with some chance of success, just before he quited Verona ; but 
he returned, bringing with him as a bride, a lady of a Bolognese house. 
Surely the countess Griacinta cannot think of paying such an old fellow 
as that, the compliment of wearing the willow for him. Yet many noted 
her drooping looks during his absence ; and her revived spirits since his 
return. See how brilliantly happy she looks now ! Her face to-night is 
as radiant and unclouded as noonday ! The devil's in the old fellow for 
bewitching the young beauties, I think ! What's his secret, in the name 
of all that's wondrous ?" 

" He doth not seem so very old, neither ;" replied the other, laughing. 
" Your juvenile envy calls him old, when partiality, or justice, might 
fairly call him no more than middle-aged." 

" No more ? What more, or what worse, than middle-aged need you 
call him ?" retorted the first speaker. " Surely a middle-aged gentleman 
should be no such very irresistible being to a fair young girl." 

' ; Fair young girls ought, doubtless, to prefer fair young gentlemen, 
like ourselves, eh ?" said his companion with a smile ; but his face be- 
came graver as he added, ' : and yet I have known of these sober elderlies, 
who, if once they do contrive to fascinate the imagination of a young 
creature, fill her heart and soul to the utter exclusion of any hope for us 
poor simple youths, whom she is apt to look upon thenceforth as frivo- 
lous boys, until such time as she herself. — if she chance to have missed 
her elderly ideal meantime, — hath gained a wiser judgment with added 
years; for then, naught will- suit her but a young husband, forsooth. 



THE WHITE DOVE OP VERONA. 375 

But with ner added years have come silver hairs ; and then the youths, 
who have become wise men, will have no more to say to her, than she 
would formerly have to say to them. And thus do youth and beauty 
play at hide-and-seek with age and gravity ; chasing each other at cross 
purposes, till the game of life ends." 

" It seems. then, you Paduan students have oeen at odd times worsted 
by your successful rivals, the Paduan professors?" replied the other 
gaily ; but seeing the look of pain that settled more and more evidently 
on his friend's face, he passed his arm through his. saying: — - i - 1 heard 
something of this, but knew not it was so serious. She is married, then? 
And, as report says, to one old enough to be her father ?" 

The young Paduan said in a low tone that struggled to be firm : — ■ 
" He is a worthy honorable man* She loves him. I have nothing to 
complain of. But my part in life is played out. Let us speak of other 
things, my friend" 

" Not so, by heaven !" exclaimed the other. " Thou shaltnot throw 
up the game as though thou hadst lost all, because the elder hand hath 
had the luck to cut thee out What if he have happened to win the 
partner thou sett'st thy heart on. There are others, man ! Let us see 
if some of our Verona beauties cannot put spirit in thee to try one fresh 
venture ! Come, I'll back thee ! Come ; and let me introduce thee to 
a certain fair cousin of mine, who is the very queen of hearts herself; 
though she might pass for the queen of diamonds, as she sits sparkling 
in her jewels, yonder." 

The Paduan with a faint smile, suffered his impetuous friend to lead 
him away, and the two young gentlemen left lady Capulet still pondering 
on what she had heard of the first part of their conversation. 

While she was still lost in thought, she was accosted by her late 
partner, the Florentine prince ; who besought her to grace him with 
her hand, that he might lead her to a banquet prepared in one of the 
farther apartments, towards which, the company were now most of them 
proceeding. As lady Capulet assented, she gave one glance towards the 
spot where her husband and the countess G-iacinta had sat together! 
The moving crowd intercepted her view ; but the next moment, she was 



376 juliet ; 

able to perceive that they had disappeared. In passing through the 
Long suite of rooms, however, that led to the supper-saloon, she caught 
sight of them again. Through a doorway, opening into a side apart- 
ment, which was lighted only by the rays of the moon, that made their 
way through a draperied window filled with exotics ; there, among the 
tall flowering plants, clearly perceptible amid the stream of moonlight 
that poured its silvery sheen around them, stood Capulet and the count- 
ess Griacinta. His wife beheld them but for a transient moment, as she 
was led past the entrance, but the vivid picture was distinctly traced. 
She saw her husband draw a letter from his bosom, give it Griacinta, and 
raise her hand to his lips ; while the look of radiant happiness which 
beamed on the fair face of the countess, caused a shadow, dark as night, 
to fall upon that of her who saw it. 

" She is calm, self-possessed, full of happy ease at heart — she, the 
guilty one, she, loving with an unhallowed passion the husband of an- 
other. While I, the injured, miserable wife, am tossed with a thou- 
sand agitating emotions ;" thought lady Capulet. " And 'tis that very 
unruffled beauty, that very serenity of aspect, which gives her the pre- 
eminence in his eyes. Why, alas, cannot I, poor untutored, unpractised 
girl that I am, maintain as tranquil an air 1 Let me school myself to 
wear a look of ease, that may hide my aching heart from indifferent 
eyes, from his, above all." 

In her proud agony, she contrived to stifle and shut up within her- 
self the rage of jealousy that consumed her ; and this very constraint 
she imposed upon the feelings burning inwardly, made her appear only 
the more exteriorly chilling. Her husband's admiration of her beauty 
was counter-balanced by his impression of her cold temperament ; and 
at the very time she was glowing with concealed passion, he felt the only 
drawback to her charms was her want of warmth. There was thus, lit- 
tle likelihood of their coming to a knowledge of the amount of love 
mutually existing between them. She, bent on crushing all outward 
demonstration of the resentment springing from an excessive affection ; 
he. unsuspicious of the cause, and only reading reserve almost amount- 
ing to indifference. She imagining herself held lightly by him as one 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 377 

too young ; he. feeling it more than probable that she looked upon him 
as too old. This very feeling on his part led to an unwitting confirma- 
tion of her self-mistrust and jealousy For Capulet, in his silly vanity 
and in his shallow notion of what might excite a girl's interest, was not 
unwilling that his young wife should hear of his character for gallantry. 
lie thought tiiat for her to know of his reputed successes among women, 
would be to give him consequence with her, and enhance his value as an 
attractive man in her eyes. He scarce attempted therefore to deny the 
charge, when it chanced to be jestingly alluded to ; but laughed it off 
in such sort, as rather to accept as a compliment, than refute as a seri- 
ous accusation. Consequently, had any evidence of his young wife's 
jealousy inadvertently escaped her, he would have been rather pleased 
than otherwise to let her suppose that they were not entirely without 
grounds. In all essential respects, however, he treated her with affec- 
tionate consideration ; and was a kind, nay, an indulgent husband. 

It happened, shortly after the entertainment at the Scaligeri palace, 
that lady Capulet was walking up and down one of the shaded alleys 
in her garden, brooding upon all the circumstances which had that even- 
ing so painfully impressed themselves upon her ; when her meditation 
was disturbed, by perceiving some one standing in the path before her. 
The abruptness of the approach it was, partly, which startled her ; and 
also the strangeness of the appearance. It was a boy, a ragged urchin, 
of some eight or ten years old. His clothes were literally mere tatters 
and hung about him with scarce a pretence of affording a covering ; but 
they might have been costliest apparel, for aught of beggarly they com- 
municated to the air of him who wore them. The various color of the 
patches might have been selected for picturesque effect, so little of men- 
dicant wretchedness did they impart. Although the rents discovered 
the bare skin, yet its texture and "color spoke somewhat of delicate and 
refined that seemed no part of pauperism. The young limbs had a turn 
and polish that conveyed a something of high breeding ; the face was 
instinct with a look of aristocratic self-assertion, and native haughti- 
ness ; it was not vulgar boldness, nor forwardness, nor pert audacity; 
it was neither presuming, nor pretentious, but a settled, innate expres- 



378 juliet; 

sion cf arrogance. It was nothing assumed or put on ; but an ingrain, 
inborn confidence and consciousness, the confidence of blood and birth. 
It was the same integral animal qualification, which swells the veins of 
the high-bred horse, which gives vigor to his muscles, and grace to the 
turn and proportion of his limbs. The child stood there in the mean- 
est of plebeian garbs, but he looked from top to toe the little patrician. 

Lady Capulet had no thought of alms, when she said : — " What is 
it you seek, child ?" 

The boy fixed his eyes on her, and answered : — ■" You 

" I, child ? How came you here ? Who are you ?" 

" I am Tybalt ; your nephew. I came here, because my father bade 
me come, when he died. He told me to seek my aunt, and that she 
would be a mother to me. Are you not she ? You are lady Capulet, 
aren't you ?" 

" My brother's child fmy poor brother — my dear brother. Yes, you 
are like him, boy ! ' When he died,' you say? Alas, he is dead then !" 

"Yes ; but he charged me with his last breath never to forget that 
though he lay there dying like a rat in a corner, he was born a gentle- 
man, of an honorable house, one of Ferrara's noble families : that though 
misery had dragged his name through the very mire, yet its genuine lus- 
tre could not be dimmed or sullied, and that he bequeathed to me the 
duty of wearing it in its original brightness. But I will never take what 
he left tarnished," said^ the boy, with a flashing eye. '• Best make my- 
self a new one at once, than seek to rub off old rust. I heard what Mat- 
teo and the rest said, about his boasting of a lofty name that he had de- 
graded. I made the fellow rue his having dared to utter a slighting 
word of my father ; I drubbed him within an inch of his life ; but I re- 
membered what he had said about the name having suffered degradation, 
and I vowed to myself I would never bear it, — and I never will. I'll earn 
one of my own, and make it famous." 

" Will you take mine ?" said lady Capulet, smiling at the boy's in- 
dignant earnestness. " I am to be a mother to you, you know ; you will 
bear your mother's name." 

" Capulet ; ay, I do not know that I could do better ;" said the bo? 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 379 

with an air of consideration, as if he were about to confer a favor by 
adopting the title as his own. ' : I will become a Capulet, I think. It 
is an ancient name, is it not ?" 

; ' One of Yerona's most illustrious and oldest houses ;" said ladv 
Capulet. '• Few vie with it in distinction and honorable renown.' 

" And those few shall hereafter learn to yield it undisputed priority ;" 
replied the boy. ; ' When I grow up, I will be a soldier. And soldiers 
can hew their way to even royal preeminence." 

Lady Capulet's resolution to take the entire charge of her brother's 
orphan son. was warmly seconded by her husband. Capulet took a great 
fancy to the boy : thinking him a fine manly lad. His natural arrogance 
passed for proper family pride. His hot temper, and fiery, impetuous 
bearing, were thought to be proofs of high spirit. His lordly disdain 
of others, his haughty self-sufficiency, were deemed part and parcel of 
his lofty descent, and his sense of the importance of the family of whom 
he now made one. His uncle gave him his own name, and treated him, 
in all respects, as if he were by blood, instead of by marriage and by 
adoption, a scion of the noble house of Capufet. 



There was to be an entertainment al fresco, at Villa Arionda. The 
countess Giacinta had invited her friends to meet in the beautiful 
grounds of her country mansion : and lady Capulet resolved to avail 
herself of the opportunity which such an occasion would afford of still 
more closely observing the conduct of her husband towards their fair 
hostess She looked forward to the clay with an eagerness of impatience 
that seemed like joy ; instead of being, as it was, the feverish anxiety 
springing from bitterest dread. Jealousy is ever inflicting new tortures 
on itself in the vain hope of allaying those it already suffers It con- 
ceives that to know the worst it suspects, would be preferable to the 
present agony of suspense ; and lady Capulet longed to have her fears 
either confirmed or annulled. 

But whatever of consoling, or freshly alarming, might have been in 
store for her from what she gathered from her observations on this day 1 



380 juliet; 

she was destined never to know. Before the day arrived, Griacinta, in 
her prime of youth and beauty, was struck by a mortal illness. She 
died suddenly ; and three days before the one on which her friends 
were convened to meet at her villa, they were all assembled in the great 
church of St. Peter's to witness the ceremonial of her lying state. 
There, on a bier, according to Italian custom, lay the fair body, arrayed 
in its richest robes, decked in its costliest jewels. She, whom they had 
looked to behold in all the animated beauty of a prosperous existence, 
young, lovely, wealthy, mistress of rank, of lands, surrounded by num- 
erous friends, was stretched before them, cold, lifeless. In lieu of play- 
ful converse, of dancing, of lively music, there was the solemn pealing 
of the organ, the choristers' mournful voices chanting her dirge, the 
funeral train of priests, the attendant acolytes with swinging censors, 
the sad faces of weeping friends, the but half-stifled sobs of her domes- 
tics, who stood there lamenting. There was a hush — a pause. And 
then these latter, as was the wont for retainers of deceased nobility, 
passed in sad procession round the body of their late mistress, offering 
their last homage of servitude and fealty in the words, " Comanda 
niente altra da me?" Not a heart there, but was rung by the thought 
of the contrast presented by this scene with that which they had looked 
forward to ; but lady Capulet, in the midst of her shocked sympathy, 
could scarce forbear indulging a cruel* joy, as she watched her husband's 
depth of grief. A sense of security, of triumph, took possession of her, 
as she looked again upon the marble stillness of those features, whose 
beaming expression of fond happiness had once caused her such misery. 
Suddenly, there was a sound of horse's feet galloping across the space 
outside ; there was a stir among the crowd that hung about the entrance 
of the church ; and then, through the midst of them, burst a young man, 
in an officer's uniform, who rushed staggeringly up the centre aisle, with 
pale face, and wild looks. He made his way straight to the bier upon 
which lay the dead Giacinta, and cast himself prone upon the body. 

A murmur of amaze and inquiry ran among the crowd. " Who is 
he ? Who can he be 1 Who is this stranger that claims so dear an 
interest in her ?" were the questions that each asked of each. Some 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 381 

stepped forward to prevent, some to assist the young man ; but when 
they raised his head from her bosom, they found he was equally insensi- 
ble to their opposition or their aid. He was dead. He had struck his 
dagger to his heart,, that it might wed hers in death 

Then, an old serving-woman of Giacinta's, raised her feeble voice. It 
was heard in the silence which ensued among the awe-stricken crowd. 
She told them that the young- gentleman who lay there dead, was 
secretly betrothed to her dear mistress. She herself, she said, and one 
other, were alone privy to the engagement between the lovers. It had 
been Giacinta's wish to have it concealed, until such time as she could 
present her future husband to her assembled friends ; and it had been 
her intention to do this, on the occasion of the festival she had appoint- 
ed three days thence. But Heaven, seeing fit to decree otherwise, had 
called her to itself: while her betrothed had been permitted to proclaim 
his right of being joined with her in the grave, by yielding his own life 
upon her dead body. The assembly reverently acknowledged the 
lover's sad claim. His corse was laid beside hers on the bier : the 
chanting of the dirge was resumed ; the funeral ceremonies proceeded ; 
Giacinta and her betrothed were borne together to one tomb, and side 
by side rested in death. 

Lady Capulet on her return home, was rebuking herself in all hu- 
mility of remorse for the injustice of her late jealous suspicions, when 
her husband volunteered the confession that he himself was the one 
other person mentioned by Giacinta's servant, as being the only sharer 
with herself in the secret of her mistress's private betrothal. He said, 
that, as the young lady's guardian, and an old friend of her father, he 
had been informed of their mutual attachment; that he had been the 
medium of communication between the lovers : had conveyed their let- 
ters from one to the other, during the period of the young soldier's 
absence with the army ; (here lady Capulet's heart smote her, as she 
heard this explanation of a circumstance which had caused her such 
jealous pangs :) and. in short, had been their confidant assistant through- 
out. For although the young countess was accountable to no one but 
herself for her choice in marriage, yet as her lover was then but a 



382 juliet ; 

young soldier of fortune, they wished to keep their engagement a secret 
from the generality of her friends, until such time as he should attain 
military rank and distinction to entitle him, in worldly eyes, and in 
conventional esteem, to become a fitting aspirant to the hand of the lady 
Arionda. "Dear creature ! Sweet Giacinta ! She had looked forward 
with a proud hope to the day when she was to present him whom she 
deemed no less endowed by nature, than by his now acquired honors, 
with full title to her loving favor ; she exultingly trusted that the time 
was come when she might proclaim to the world the preference she had 
so long cherished in patient expectancy of this happy moment. Alas! 
alas ! a moment never to be hers. Dear Giacinta ! gentlest lady ! cold 
in death thy warm and loving heart ! Pale thy sweet face ! A bier 
thy nuptial couch ! That those tender limbs, that so fair a body, should 
find such resting-place !" 

"While her husband gave way to these lamentings, lady Capulet felt 
her resolution, to throw herself into his arms, and own all her late 
weakness, her doubts, her jealousy, gradually fail her. She felt as it 
were, her heart contract and close, at the sight of his grief for one whom 
she had so long feared as a rival. So mean a passion, so narrowing to 
the soul is jealousy, that it perpetually inspires a thousand new un- 
worthy chimeras, to crush and dispel any occasional yearning towards 
good. Had lady Capulet yielded to her first generous emotion of con- 
trition, and her consequent impulse of unreserved confidence in her 
husband, she would have saved herself many an hour — nay. many a 
year of torture. As it was, she thought : — "Why did he tell me this? 
Why did he explain to me the circumstances of his connection with 
Giacinta? Could he have suspected my jealous folly? So far from 
confirming his suspicion, let me rather conceal from him that it ever 
had grounds ; and if I have done him and her injustice, I will right 
them in my own belief of their innocence. Let that suffice." 

But who shall safely rely upon the resolve of a weak heart to do 
justice in thought to wronged friendship ? If we would be sincere in 
such redress, let us make honest, open avowel, face to face with our in- 
jured friend. Let us ask his help in our endeavour. Let us rather 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 383 

confide in the strength of his forgiving love, than in our own frail, un- 
assisted, secret resolutions. Seldom have these vigour, of themselves, 
to be maintained. The very courage to avouch the error that originat- 
ed them, is a test of their force, and a proof of their sincerity, as well 
as being an expiatory effort we owe to those whom we have wronged. 

Lady Capulet had another motive for thinking it unnecessary to make 
the mortifying confession of her jealousy to her husband. She was 
about to become a mother : and she fondly trusted that this new claim 
upon his tenderness and regard, would centre them wholly upon herself. 
How could she imagine there was need to own having entertained a 
doubt of his affection, when she so soon hoped to see it exclusively hers? 
She looked forward to the birth of her child, not only as a source of 
delight in itself, but as a means of securing the love of him she so 
loved and revered. 

But when her little girl was born, being unable to nurse it herself 
she was compelled to give up the hope she had allowed herself to indulge 
from the joint pleasure of her husband and herself in possessing this 
mutual source of interest. Her own health had suffered much. It 
was thought advisable that she should have a change of air ; the infant 
Juliet was therefore consigned to the care of a wet-nurse ; while, as 
soon as lady Capulet herself could bear the journey, her husband took 
her on a visit of a few months, to some old friends, who resided on 
their estate near Mantua. 

It was a charming spot : its owners were pleasant people ; in such a 
scene, and in such society, lady Capulet regained health and spirits, 
with renewed strength of body ; but she suffered a relapse of her old 
mental malady. Their host and hostess had an only daughter, named 
Leonilda. She was a gay, light-hearted creature, the treasure of her 
doting parents, and the delight of all who knew her. She was playful 
in speech, sportive in manner, from pure cheerfulness of nature. The 
very sight of her face entering a room, was like a beam of morning ; 
and her airy figure, as it flew along the garden-paths, seemed akin to the 
dancing of the flowers and leaves, stirred by summer breezes. Her 
eyes sparkled and moistened when she spoke on any animating theme, 



384 juliet; 

like sunshine reflected in the water ; and her color varied with her 
thoughts, as the sky reddens at the coming of dawn. She was happy 
in herself, happy in others ; and made others happy, in seeing herself 
so happy. Her blithe humour was infectious ; few could resist the in- 
fluence of her sprightly tones, they were so unaffectedly gladsome ; they 
compelled an unconscious sympathy of joyful feeling. You felt elate 
you knew not why, only to look at her. At least Capulet always felt 
this, when he had his eyes on her face, and he naturally took delight in 
letting them rest there often. He had known her from earliest child- 
hood, and loved her fondly as though she were still a child. She knew 
him as a good-humoured, merry mannered man, who had always lent 
himself to her gay whims and fancies, and had made himself a pleasant 
companion, ever since she could remember, in spite of the difference be- 
tween their ages. They were old acquaintances, — for he was an inti- 
mate friend of her father and mother, to whom he had been all his life 
in the habit of making long and frequent visits, — and they therefore 
met now T with all the. familiarity and ease of enjoyment naturally spring- 
ing out of such a connection. 

Instead of this mutual liking appearing, as it was. the simple affec- 
tion between a light-hearted girl, and a lively tempered man, whose man- 
ners suited each other, to lady Capulet's jaundiced eyes, it seemed the 
powerful attachment which springs up irresistibly between assimilating 
natures. She saw in the gay and brilliant Leonilda precisely the 
being calculated to win the love of an accomplished man, such as she 
deemed her husband. She felt it to be but too likely that the smiling 
bright-eyed beauty should attract him in preference to the dark-eyed 
gravity of countenance, and the serious repose of demeanour, which 
were her own characteristics. Again she allowed her thoughts to toss 
and struggle in the perpetual unrest of jealous surmise. 

Meanwhile time insensibly crept on. Capulet was not willing to 
leave friends with whom he was so happy ; and his wife dared not trust 
herself with any proposal of departure, lest her true motive for dislik- 
ing to protract her visit should betray itself. At length Capulet him- 
self began to share the desire which had been one of her motives for 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 385 

wishing to return home Both Father and mother longed to see their 
little girl. They had heard, through messengers appointed to bring 
them regular news from Verona, that the child was constantly thriving ; 
but now that it had attained an age beyond mere infancy, they wanted 
personally to witness its growth and improvement, and to have it al- 
ways with them. 

Hitherto, the little Juliet had dwelt at the farm-house, with her 
foster-parents, tenants of the Capulet family. The farmer was a hearty, 
jocular, good soul, well nigh as fond of the little daughter of his feudal 
lord, as of his own bantling ; while his wife vowed there was not a pin 
to choose betwixt them," which was dearest to her, lady-bird Juliet, or 
baby Susan. 

ki May-be, our Susan is the v best little good thing in her temper, 
whilst my pretty lamb here, is the sweetest innocent in her pets and 
her tempers ;" said the nurse to her good man, who was busy near his 
wife, trimming and training some stray branches of a vine that grew 
against the wall, near to which she was sitting, with one babe on her 
lap, and the other at her feet. 

: ' How mean'st thou, wife? Like a true woman, thou muddl'st thy 
kindly meaning with untoward speech. What wouldst thou say of our 
good little Susan's temper, and pretty Jule's tempers'?" 

" Marry, all the world trows that temper and tempers are two. Su- 
san hath- an angel's temper for honey-sweet goodness. Take her up out 
of her sleep, and she'll crow and coo ; snatch the pap from her 
very lip, and she'll crow and coo ; whip her out of your arms, and lay 
her sprawling on the floor, and bless ye, she'll still laugh, and coo, and 
crow, like any cockrel ! But it isn't so with Jule ! No, no ! Marry 
come up, I warrant ye, my young lady-babe knows who's mistress. 
She'll kick and foin, a very colt of viciousness, an' ye cross her anywise. 
See her only this morning ! When my young madam must needs have 
Susan's bowl of milk 'stead of her own ; how the pretty fool fought 
and strove for it, till she got it. Susan, I warrant ye, knew her place, 
and gave't up. She's a good little soul, is our Susan ; but Jule's a dear 
lambkin of pretty wilfulness." 



386 JULIET ; 

t; Ay, by my holidam, that she is !" quoth the farmer. " She's like 
one of these birds, wife;" said he, pointing to. the dove-house, just 
above their heads : " there's a deal o' pouting, and ruffling, and show of 
angers, and threatenings, but it's all love, bless ye, all love. Jule '11 
kiss ye, very minute after she's done roarin' and strivin' for something 
she's set her heart on. Wilt thou not. Jule ?" 

- Say • Ay.' as thou did'st yesterday, when he asked his merry 
question, after thoud'st fallen and broken thy brow, Jule ;" said the 
laughing nurse, to the babe on her lap. " See now, how she's rumpling 
and foraging my kerchief ! Ha' done then, lady-bird ! 'Tis naught, 'tis 
naught. I tell thee ! Thou wilt not like the wormwood, I promise thee. 
: Tis high time thou wert weaned, lambkin. A good bowl o' milk is 
what's best for thee, now. Thou liked'st it well this morning, thou 
know'st Art thou so headstrong ? Yea, art thou 1 Nay then, taste 
it, sweetheart, and see how the bitter will put thee in a pretty pet." 

The good farmer had stayed his hand from his work, to watch the 
little humors of the child, as his wife played with it, pretendedly teasing 
and thwarting it, now withholding, now proffering that which she had 
taken care to render distasteful to her nursling ; when, as he turned 
again towards his work, he saw the wall heave, give a lurch, and recede 
from the twigs he was preparing to nail against it. At the same mo- 
ment, through the still air, came a deep sound, inexpressibly awful in 
its hidden menace. The farmer cast his eye up towards the blue sky. 
No signal of storm was there. It was not thunder. Then the dove- 
house swayed to and fro — the birds flew wildly hither and thither — the 
ground shook, with a vast tremble — trees waved, and bent their tops, as 
beneath a mighty wind, though no breath of air was stirring — and again 
was heard that grave subterranean murmur. u Away, wife ! Away !" 
cried the farmer ; ;i make the best of thy way to the field yonder. Go 
not near the house. Away ! The earthquake ! Trudge, quick as thou 
canst to the open field with my lord's babe, while I follow thee with our 
own. Where's Susan ? Mother of heaven ! the child has waddled 
away out of ken. No, there she is, 'mongst the vine-leaves. Begone 
you, wife ; I'll fetch our Susan. Away with ye ! Trudge, trudge, 
woman, for dear life !" 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 387 

The nurse fled, with the child in her arms. The next instant, down 
came the dove-cote with a crash; and in another moment, as the farmer 
ran to snatch up Lis little one. the vine-covered wall tottered, was split 
and rent asunder, and falling, both father and child were buried be- 
neath its ruins. 

Next day. when the lord Capulet and his wife arrived, they found 
the little Juliet safe ; and their first care, in gratitude towards her who 
had been the means of the child's preservation, was to remove the 
nurse from the farm, and instal her in their own household, making it 
her future home. In the pride of being at the great house, in the con- 
stant dwelling beside her foster-child, the nurse found consolation for 
all that she had lost. 

But no sooner had Lady Capulet's anxiety respecting her child been 
allayed, than her mind reverted to the subject that usually engrossed 
it. She thought over all that had occurred to confirm her fears of her 
husband's attachment to another than herself. She remembered his 
high spirits, his evident state of happiness and enjoyment, during their 
late sojourn at Mantua ; she remembered a sudden sadness that had 
taken possession of him on the eve of their departure from their friends' 
house ; she recalled the- struggle with which he had, — plainly enough to 
her eyes, — endeavored to conceal his emotion at parting with Leonilda .; 
she recollected how vainly he had contended against the dejection into 
which he had fallen during the journey, and which had preyed upon him 
ever since, rendering him, — usually so lively, so careless-tempered, — 
thoughtful, absent, and melancholy. When she ventured to allude to 
his evident depression, he had roused himself, denied that he had any 
particular source of uneasiness : but soon relapsed into his former ab- 
straction. This, instead of decreasing, grew upon him ; and at length, 
he, in a half-affected negligence of manner, announced that he intended 
returning for a few days to Mantua, as he did not think his friend look- 
ing well when they had left him. 

Lady Capulet dared not trust herself to offer any objection : but 
she felt sure that although Leonilda's father was the pretext, it was 
Leonilda herself who occasioned this return. It was true, that Capulet's 



388 



JULIET ; 



friend had been ill — sufficiently ill to keep his room for a few days, and 
to consult a physician. — therefore the solicitude on the father's account 
was plausible enough ; but lady Capulet's conviction was. that the true 
anxiety arose from a desire to see the daughter. She believed that her 
husband could not endure the absence from her he loved ; she believed 
that it was this sick desire to be with the secret object of his passion, 
which caused his unhappiness, and which induced him to brave all, that 
he might return to her. 

Capulet went to Mantua. Again he Went ; and again ; and yet 
again. These repeated visits tortured his wife into full credence of all 
she had feared. Yet she allowed not- one symptom of jealousy to 
escape her. She was too proud to complain : too anxious for his love 
and esteem, to risk losing the portion she possessed, by reproaches: she 
disdained to have any betrayal of her feelings extorted from her. She 
suffered in silence. 

Time crept on, and brought no abatement of her misery. Rather 
increase of conviction, and bitterness of regret. She had nothing to com- 
plain of in Capulet's behaviour to herself. It bespoke respect, and entire 
confidence in his wife's worth and excellent qualities. But she felt 
herself estranged from her husband's heart ; she thought herself bereaved 
of his passionate attachment, his preference, his love. 

Once, she was brooding on this void in her existence — this failure in 
her dearest hopes, and she could not refrain from shedding tears in the 
forlornness of her heart. Capulet was away ; gone on one of his fre- 
quent visits to his Mantuan friends ; and she felt peculiarly lonely, — 
desolate, deserted. Her little girl was at her feet, playing with some 
chesnuts, that Tybalt had collected for the child's amusement, to roll 
about the floor, and scramble after. For Juliet could run about well, 
now ; and talk, and prattle, and play with him ; and the boy was very 
fond of his pretty gentle little cousin, who, in turn, had taken a great 
fancy to him. 

The sight of her mother weeping, caught the child's attention, and 
she paused in her sport. The burnished brown balls were permitted to 
roll unheeded away, as the little creature raised herself from the ground ; 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 389 

and leaned against her mother's knee, and gazed up in her mother's 
face. 

" What are you crying for. mammina? Have you hurt yourself?" 
Lady Capulet had, unconsciously, one hand clasped in the other. 
'• Have you hurt your poor finger? Let Juliet kiss it, and make it well. 
Or I will fetch nurse to bind it up ; she always cures me, when I hurt 
myself." 

:; I have not hurt myself, cara di mamma ;" said the mother. 

" Then why do you cry ? Has any one else hurt you ? Let me 
look at your hand : you hold it as if it pained you. Let me kiss it." 

"No one has hurt me. foolish little tender heart :" said lady Capulet, 
softly pinching the cheek of the face that looked up at her with such 
childish earnestness ; " I have no wound. None that I could show to 
you, dear child. Who should hurt me ?" 

" Who indeed ?" echoed Tybalt, who came into the room just then, 
and heard his aunt's last w T ords. " I should like to see the man who 
would dare to hurt or offend you. Boy as I am. I'd teach him better 
manners." 

There was something in the lad's defiance, idle vaunt as it was in 
one of his years, that sounded pleasantly to lady Capulet ; it seemed a 
promise of championship to one whe felt herself forlorn. 

' ; Why, what wouldst thou do, by way of lesson to one who should 
injure me, young cousin ?" she said with a smile. " Thou art yet too 
slight to think of coping with a grown man, should such a one offer me 
wrong." 

c: Skilful fencing masters many a tall fellow ;" said the youth ; " and 
I practise evermore, that I may get perfect command over my weapon ; 
for that gives command over men, — over all. But there are ways even 
for those who have the disadvantages of inferior years, inferior strength, 
and inferior skill in fence:" added he, nodding his head with an air at 
once mysterious and confident. 

" Indeed ? and what may they be ?" asked lady Capulet. 

She was startled, when he promptly replied : — " A hulking giant, 
beyond the reach of a poor swordsman, might be brought down by a 



390 Juliet ; 

poisoned arrow, or a sure draught. Italian honour wronged, must be 
avenged, come the vengeance by what means it may. Italian revenge 
for injured honor is not over-scrupulous. Why should it be ? He who 
wrongs mine honor, becomes my rightful victim. If I cannot retaliate 
by force, I may by craft. If I have not the power myself to punish him 
as he deserves, I may yet contrive that he shall not remain un- 
punished. No : none who offend me, or mine, shall ever escape without 
his due." 

"What ! talk'st thou of poison, boy? Dost thou know how fearfully 
it sounds in thy young mouth ?" said lady Gapulet, lowering her voice 
beyond hearing of the child, Juliet. 

" Never too young to consider means of avenging insult •" replied 
the stripling, with one of his haughty looks. " Long ago, — before I 
came to Verona, — an old man. a neighbour of ours, gave my father a 
curious poison. I heard them talking together about its properties. 
The old fellow, who thought himself obliged to my father, gave - it him, 
as a valuable matter, the possession of which might one day stand him 
in good stead. He told him it was so subtle, that a few grains of it laid 
in a glove, would make that glove a deadly gift to its wearer. The 
venom would insensibly make its way through the pores of the hand, 
take possession of the vital powers, palsy them, subjugate them, and 
eventually destroy life itself, without leaving a trace of how the mortal 
stroke had been dealt. The safety, the unsuspected security, thus 
afforded of putting an enemy to death, gave the value, he said, to the 
gift. They did not know I overheard them, but I did ; and when my 
father died, I, as his rightful heir, took possession of the only thing of 
worth he had. I brought it away with me. thinking, boy as I was, I 
might need vantage my years denied me 'gainst possible foes. But I 
shall never want it now. Henceforth, I trust to mine arm as my sole 
avenger." 

" But it is not fit. boy, thou shouldst possess means of such deadly 
potency, within thine own discretion, to use or not, as seems to thee 
good ;" said lady Capulet. " Give the poison into my keeping. Best 
not trust thyself with such fatal temptation to evil." 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 391 

' : "Willingly : I have no farther use for it. I will deliver it into your 
charge, that you may make sure of my never using it. by throwing it 
away yourself." 

Well had it been for the lady, had she immediately done so. The 
words she used to her nephew, were applicable to herself. ' Best not 
trust thyself with such fatal temptation to evil.' But when once the 
poison came into her possession, she contented herself with carefully 
locking it up in a cabinet in her own room, thinking it was out of 
harm's way. now that it was beyond the power of a rash _ boy. She 
never reflected that it was within the reach of a desperate woman — a 
woman made desperate at moments, by the haunting thoughts of a 
fancy heated and distempered by the passion of jealousy. It never 
struck her. that she. who shrank from the bare possibility of crime in 
another, might be goaded to its commission herself, when the insupport- 
able sense of wrong, together with opportunity, should combine to sting 
her into oblivion of all. save thirst for vengeance. 

Some time after this, it happened that there was a fashion. — a sort 
of rage. — for a peculiar light-colored glove. They were worn by all 
ladies who pretended to taste and distinction. They were presented in 
half dozen pairs by gallants to their mistresses. They were called Cleo- 
patra gloves : and were of a pale tint, supposed to be that of the waters 
of the Xile. In short, they were just that sort of elegant trifle, which 
constitute a necessity, while the - furore " lasts, in circles where luxury 
and fashion dictate laws. 

" Capulet one morning brought several pairs of these gloves as a pre- 
sent to his wife. She. charmed with the attention from him. received 
them with gracious words of delighted acceptance But all her pleasure 
was marred, when he added : — " By the way. I think of riding over to 
Mantua next week, what say you to sending a share of your Cleopatras 
to Leonilda ? I will take them for you. They will be a welcome gift 
to a country damsel, who. though she lives out of the world, only prizes 
the pretty toys and trickeries of the world the more. Come, will you 
spare them to her : no churl are you. good my lady. I know. So. how 
say you?" 



392 juliet ; 

What could she say? None other, of course, than that she should 
be happy to comply with his wish. But in her heart she recoiled from 
this enforced courtesy. To be offered through him, too ! And then 
the cruel thought arose, that this was a planned thing,— a scheme 
of her husband's, to present Leonilda with some of these gloves as a 
gallantry from himself, under pretence of being a friendly token from 
his wife. She was used as a screen, then,— a convenient blind ! 

Lady Capulet revolved and revolved these galling thoughts, until 
she writhed beneath the barbed agony. Suddenly an idea darted like 
a lightning-flash into her brain. Across her mind, darkened and con- 
fused by the chaos of her previous reflections, this new thought came 
with a scorching, scathing glare. It was that of the poison. The poi- 
son that was so subtle in its effects. The poison that was to be admin- 
istered through the medium of a glove. The poison that she had by 
her, concealed in her cabinet. At first, appalled, she started from her 
own suggestion ; but gradually it won upon her imagination ; she con- 
fronted it ; she admitted it ; until it seemed to smile upon her, as a 
possible ray of guidance, of hope. She went so far as to consider that 
since a week was to elapse before her husband's setting forth for Man- 
tua, she could decide in the interim whether one of the pairs of gloves 
among the packet she sent, should be a poisoned pair or not. Once 
permit the soul to entertain a criminal purpose — to dally with its propo- 
sition — to moot the possibility of wrong doing ; and it is sullied ready 
for the deed. She went farther. She went so far as to prejjare a pair 
and to place them in her cabinet, marked with a private mark, that she 
might distinguish them and include them among Leonilda's or not. as 
she might at the last moment determine. Fatal first step in error ! 
Who knows whither it may lead, — through what tortuous paths it may 
deviate from virtue and happiness, — in what unforeseen abyss of sin and 
misery it may end 1 

On the eve of her lord's departure, lady Capulet was sitting in her 
own room, with her little girl, as usual, playing about, amusing herself 
with her own childish games ; now hunting Tybalt's chesnuts across the 
floor, now running in and out of the balcony, among the orange-trees 



THE WHITE DOVE OP VERONA. 393 

and oleanders, now busying herself with the pretty colors of her 
mother's silk-winders, now scrambling under the table, anon clambering 
up upon the chairs, and peeping into the vases and pateras, on the mar- 
ble slab, or peering into the large mirror that hung above it, watching 
the vapour fade, and fleet, and disappear, as she touched it with her 
rosy lips, and breathed upon its crystal surface. Capulet had just left 
the apartment, reminding his wife of her promised gift to Leonilda, and 
bidding her make up the packet ; as he meant to take horse for Mantua 
early on the morrow, that he might have the cool morning hours for 
beginning his journey. 

The lady went to the cabinet. With an agitated hand she drew 
forth the drawer in which lay the gloves. Whether it was that the 
faint and scarcely perceptible odour which hung about the poisoned 
pair, affected her ; or, that a sickening sense of their foul and insidious 
purpose overpowered her ; but she wavered, put her hand to her fore- 
head, and, turning away towards the open window, leaned against it, 
trembling, and overcome. She remained thus, for a considerable space 
of time, partly oppressed, partly sunk in painful reverie, when she was 
suddenly aroused by hearing her little Juliet exclaim, in the pretty 
caressing words of an Italian child's expression of delight : — ' ; Quanto 
sono carini I" How lovely ! See what a gay lady I am, with my pretty 
gloves, like a grown woman ! "See here, mammina !" 

The word 'gloves' struck upon the mother's ear, with a pang of ill- 
omen. She looked round, and beheld the child, — who had scrambled 
up to the cabinet by means of a chair, — with her baby hands buried in 
a pair of the well-known pale-tinted, Nile-coloured gloves ; holding them 
up in innocent triumph, smiling, and exulting, and calling upon her 
mother to exult with her. « x 

In deadly terror, the mother staggered forward, snatched them off, 
and gave one despairing glance to see if the fatal mark were there which 
identified the envenomed pair. They were unmarked ; and lady Capulet, 
catching her child to her bosom, sank on her knees, and buried her face 
in her hands, in a passion of thanksgiving. 

After a time she arose ; set herself to satisfy the inquiries of her 



394 juliet ; 

child, who wondered to see her mother's agitation ; and then, with as 
much calmness as she could summon, went to the cabinet, took from it 
the marked pair of gloves, which, together with the remainder of the 
poison, she set fire to, by means of a lighted taper, and watched them 
until they were reduced to ashes. When this was done, she made up 
the packet of Cleopatra gloves for Leonilda, with a firm hand ; feeling 
as if in conquering her reluctance to send them, she made a sort of expi- 
atory offering for her late intentional misdeed. 

But though her gratitude was profound, for having been mercifully 
spared the frightful consequences to her child which might have resulted 
from her meditated crime, yet it could not so wholly inspire her with 
virtuous resolves for the future, but that they gave way beneath fresh 
incitement and temptation. Her tortures of jealousy and wounded 
love, were all bleeding anew the next day, when her lord took leave of 
her, professedly to go and spend some time with his friends at Mantua. 
She was sitting disconsolately in the garden ; no sight of nature brought 
repose or solace to her perverted feelings ; she was too much absorbed 
in the sense of her injuries, to derive relief and comfort from so pure a 
source. 

Presently, she heard hasty footsteps at no great distance, as it 
seemed, from the alcove where she sat ; and the moment after, she 
started up. in some alarm at seeing a man. with a pale face, and disor- 
dered attire, rush towards the spot. He was looking wildly around, 
and casting occasional glances behind him. as if in fear of pursuit. 
When he perceived the lady, he paused for a moment ; then, forming a 
hurried resolution to throw himself upon her mercy, he cast himself at 
her feet, and besought her to take pity on an unfortunate wretch 
escaping from ofiicers of justice. 

" Should I be, taken, they will condemn me to the galleys — break me 
on the wheel — burn me alive :" — thus he poured forth his incoherent 
supplication — " Save me, save me from the fangs of the bloodhounds ! 
They will tear me to pieces ! I am not so guilty as they think. Conceal 
me but until the first keenness of search is past. Then I'll reach a 
church. Once ' prender chiesa,' and I'm safe !" 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 395 

The vehemence of his petition moved her. " Ay. sanctuary ! 'Tis 
well thought of:" she said. ' : That will be your best refuge. There is 
no safe concealment here. How came you hither V 1 

" In my desperation, I contrived to leap your garden-walls. But they 
are close upon my track They can hardly fail to discover which way 
I have fled. Hasten, dear lady ! Help me to hide ! I am lost if they 
get hold of me before I can take shelter in a church. Once safe there, 
I can set them at defiance. They dare not break sanctuary. Hasten, 
hasten, lady !" 

Lady Capulet yielded. to his urgency : she sta} T ed to question him no 
farther; but led him to a small door in the orchard-wall, that opened 
into a by-street, through which the family were wont to pass, on their 
way to the neighbouring church, close at hand. She directed him hasti- 
ly : bade him take sanctuary there ; and promised by-and-by, when all 
was quiet, to bring him food herself. 

It was some hours ere she could make her way thither unobserved. 
The dusk of evening cast murky shadows along the old aisles, as the lady 
crept into the then empty church. The hour of vespers was over : the 
few stragglers whom the service had congregated, were now dispersed ; 
and not a living soul was there, save that unhappy guilty one, lurking for 
a refuge from disgrace and death. The space of marble walls and vaulted 
roof, struck chill upon her senses : the silence, broken only by the echoes 
of her own trembling footsteps, impressed her with the vague feeling of 
dreariness and dread : the long vista of tombs stretching into a dim 
depth of distance that the eye could scarcely penetrate, saddened her 
with a gloomy and foreboding apprehension of she scarce knew what. 
Things familiar to her, in the broad face of noon, and in the company of 
accustomed associates, assumed a threatening and almost spectral aspect, 
viewed under the circumstances of privacy, and stealth, and shame that 
now invested them. An avowed criminal, an offender, a culprit evading 
justice, — was she absolved in blindly aiding him to escape a perhaps 
righteous retribution ? She felt mistrustful. — dubious : — in precisely 
that mood of mind, which made her fancy herself, in a manner, partaker 
of the degradation and abasement, she had come to help. Her recent 



39 C juliet ; 

meditated wrong, had fearfully diminished her self respect, her conscious 
integrity. She had forfeited the right of an unspotted conscience to 
denounce those who had fallen from virtue. She had a terrible secret 
prompting, that made her involuntarily acknowledge herself on a sort of 
guilty level with this man ; although her crime was unperpetrated save 
in will, and his was actually committed. 

She shuddered beneath the impression of some such feelings as these, 
while she watched the stranger eagerly devour the contents of the basket 
she had brought for him. His gaunt, and hunger- starved looks, no less 
than the avidity with which he fed, told how long and severe had been 
his fast. 

" It puts heart in me !" he at length exclaimed. " I am a new man! 
Methinks I could now brave a meeting with those hell-hounds, and dare 
them to do their worst. But I shall baffle them yet. This respite — this 
good food — will enable me to follow up my flight. With midnight to 
favor me, I shall make my escape from this place ; and whilst they snore 
in Verona, I push on to Mantua. There I have secure hiding-holes of 
mine own, out of all human ken. But should I never see you more, lady, 
let me thank you for your bounteous succour. I could wish to prove my 
gratitude to my preserver. Tell me, madam, is there aught in which I 
may serve you 1 Men call me ruffian, outcast, worthless villain. But 
there is something yet in Onofrio, vile as he may be, which bids him 
hope to show that he can be grateful." 

u What was the crime for which the justicers are in pursuit of you?" 
asked lady Capulet, for she now saw him as he was, a reckless, hardened 
mis-doer, whom a temporary strait had rendered apparently submissive, 
but really abject. 

" I stabbed a man to the heart, who had sought to betray the girl I 
love. The scoundrel seducer perished, as he ought, by the hand of him 
he would have deprived of all most dearly held. You. lady, dwelling 
in the calm of a prosperous existence, little know of the wild tempta- 
tions to vengeance begotten of wrong and oppression. How should you 
conceive the goading torture of seeing the one object to which your 
soul claims a right — the right of your own devoted love, — lured away, 
beguiled, perverted, snatched for ever from your hopes ?" 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 397 

But lady Capulet's deep sigh unconsciously betrayed fullest sympa- 
thy with the ease his words depicted. 

Onofrio regarded her attentively. 

- You can conceive it — you can feel it : you can comprehend its pro- 
vocation, and the deadly thoughts it engenders. You have experienced 
its fever, its agony. — and know the fatal thirst which nothing can allay, 
save the blood of the injurer. — the tumult of the soul which nothing 
can still, save the death of the wronger. You have stretched forth a 
helping hand to me in mine hour of peril, lady : let me aid you to your 
revenge. Should you desire a home-blow for a faithless lover, or rid- 
dance from a troublesome rival. " 

He paused abruptly, and significantly. 

Lady Capulet started to hear her own dimly-seen wish — a wish scarce 
shaped to herself — thus put into words. 

He looked at her : then resumed : — " This arm is not one to hesi- 
tate. It will strike a sure blow. Xo compunctious scruple, at latest 
moment, shall shake the allegiance it vows. I owe my life, my freedom. 
to yon : and I dedicate their first deed to your behalf. Tell me how it 
may serve you." 

' ; You spoke of Mantua. — you are abont to repair thither." — faltered 
she. 

" It is there the girl I spoke of. lives. Petronilla. — handmaiden to 
the lady Leonilda." 

: " Leonilda !" hurriedly exclaimed lady Capulet. 

" Aye : she. Do you know her ? A mocking witch : a flouting, jeer- 
inrr young madam, who banters and ridicules everything and everybody ; 
one who turns you into a jest and a by-word, with a twinkle of her eyes ; 
and who'll make you a laughing-stock and a mark for the finger of scorn. 
with a curl of her lip ; and all forsooth under pretence of mirth and 
good-humour. A murrain on her smiles ! I hate them. I owe her a 
reckoning for a pestilent trick she played me — or which I'm well-nigh 
sure she played me. when I was last there, lurking abont their grounds 
in hope of catching a moment's sight of Petronilla. Is it the sportive 
cruelty. — the gay malice of the lady Leonilda. — so sinister in their af- 



398 juliet ; 

fected light-heartedness, and innocence, that have played } t ou the ill trick 
of inveigling the heart you prize ? I can well believe it of her. Is it she ?" 

Lady Capulet attempted to reply, but the words died on her lips= 
She stood looking fixedly at him ; the pallor of her face, the expression 
of her eyes, the set rigidity round her mouth, sufficiently answering 
his question. 

'• And it is this laughing sorceress, you would have quieted? 'Faith, 
it would be benefit rather than harm, to stop the mouth of a scoffing 
simpleton like young madam Leonilda He'd deserve thanks, rather than 
blame, who should stay her gibing titter. It is just such foolish giglots 
as she, who ensnare and enslave men who see not through their gay 
craft ; bewitching them out of their senses, with wily looks and wanton 
raillery. A man will risk his soul for one of those smiling mischiefs. I 
know them. I know her." 

The thought of her husband — of his evident thrall to the fascination 
of those smiles — of the power they had to draw him perpetually away from 
his home — of his absence now on one of these visits — of the irresisti- 
ble charm they possessed for him — of the spell which they exercised over 
him, counteracting and nullifying all her own hopes of winning his heart, 
pressed upon her, and sharply seconded Onofrio's words. 

She still kept looking at him ; motionless and unable to speak. But 
as he again paused, she drew her purse from her girdle, and mechanic- 
ally placed it in his hand. 

The man gave a grim smile. 

" I am pledged to your wish, madam. I can read it without words. 
No need of them. Best none. But this much, understand. A dagger 
may silence a gallant — but a woman must be otherwise dealt with. Her 
own pillow will suffice : stopped breath leaves no tell-tale scar. They 
shall think no other than that she — ha ! ha ! — died a natural death. As 
though all death were not equally • natural,' when it's desired — by those 
who die or by those who survive." 

The lady shrank from his words. She revolted from the very bru- 
tality, which was to secure the accomplishment of her secret wish. 
But still she uttered no word. She turned away and retraced her steps j 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 399 

the darkness of her own thoughts a yet more heavy shadow than any 
which fell amid the cloistered aisles. She crept through the door that 
admitted her into her own gardens ; she stole along the embowered paths 
and alleys ; and here she paced up and down for a season, — the silence, 
the retirement, the ooscurity, all suiting best with her mood, and with 
the consciousness of stealthy misdoing, in which she was plunged. On 
repairing to her own apartment, the light seemed to bewilder her with a 
sense of guilt revealed and denounced. She sought refuge, in the cur- 
tained seclusion of her child's sleeping-room. But here, it was still 
worse. The half-light, the screened quiet reigning here, — above all, the 
sight of that baby face, reposing in its pure innocence, struck upon her 
accusingly, and aroused a sense of contrast with her own unquiet 
spirit, her own guilty purposes,' that was intolerable. She once more 
took flight from the scene, forgetting that it was her own heart which 
presented such fearful images, and from which she could not fly. 

At length, after some hours of vain struggle with herself, she took 
the resolution of going once more to the spot where she had left Onofrio ; 
of forbidding him to. interpret her wishes amiss ; and of clearly enjoining 
him to forbear from all attempted injury towards Leonilcla, But on 
reaching the old church she found it deserted. She carefully searched 
every portion of the building, but found it, beyond a doubt, empty. The 
man had evidently left the place, and was even now on his way to Man- 
tua. There was no longer a choice ; she must abide by what had already 
passed between them ; there was no retracing. 

All night she lay awake, a prey to self-reproach, and to horror un- 
speakable at the thought of her impossibility to avert the probable result 
of her own criminal instigation. What though she had not expressly 
stated her desire to have Leonilda removed from her path ; she had 
allowed it to be inferred from her manner ; she had left the inference 
uncontradicted when Onofrio plainly showed it to have been so drawn by 
him ; nay, she had, by the significant donation of her purse at that very 
moment, sufficiently denoted her sanction to what was perfectly, though 
tacitly, understood between them. In the darkness of midnight, con- 
science is apt to lend us its clearest light. In the hours of gloom and 



400 juliet ; 

uncertainty, it often sheds its most luminous convictions upon the soul. 
We dare not then refuse admission to its holy, guiding ray. But with 
the coming dawn, we suffer it to pale, and lose its influence upon us. 
With the return of morning, with the rising sun, our boldness gathers 
strength to outface the gentler monitory light, and its power is soon 
quenched in the full glow and glare of day. 

So with lady Capulet. When she arose next morning, she threw off 
many of the salutary fears and regrets of the past night, as overstrained, 
imaginary, and needless. She persuaded herself that she was unneces- 
sarily allowing mere visionary terrors to haunt her. She endeavoured 
to feel satisfied that there was cause for neither self-blame nor alarm. 
She resolved to abjure reflection, to cast off anxiety, as much as possible; 
and to this end, she determined to go into society more than she had 
hitherto done, that its distractions might serve to dissipate a fruitless 
solicitude. She was piqued into a confirmation of this resolve, by noti- 
cing her husband's manner on his return from Mantua, He made no 
secret of his last visit having been a most happy one ; he affected no 
concealment of the delight, the fresh accession of joy and good spirits it 
had occasioned him ; and Capulet's gaiety determined his wife to try and 
emulate it, by her own assumed animation. 

At the different houses lord and lady Capulet frequented, among the 
brilliant assemblage they met there, lady Capulet had often again encoun- 
tered the young Florentine prince who had been her partner on the night of 
the ball at the Scaligeri palace. She could not but perceive, that his 
youthful highness was greatly struck by her beauty ; and that he lost no 
opportunity of letting her know by the ardour of his manner, and by the 
eloquent language of his eyes, that he only required her sanction and 
encouragement to become at once her avowed admirer. But her own 
conduct had always been at once so unaffectedly and unostentatiously 
dignified, yet so quietly simple ; so unmistakeably guarded, yet so gentle 
and kind in its manifestation of liking towards him ; that the young man 
had never hitherto ventured beyond these mute expressions of his ado- 
ration. He contented himself by letting his patient assiduity, his con- 
stancy, his silent attentions, his never omitting to be present at any 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 401 

party where she was likely to be. plead for him, and make their way, if 
it might be, to her heart. He knew that when sincerely and persever- 
ingly pursued, these seldom fail in producing an impression on womanly 
nature. — more especially on Italian womanhood. 

It was just at this juncture, that lady Capulet, resolving to enter 
more into the spirit of society, and take more pleasure in its diversions, 
consequently met, now almost daily, her admirer ; and it was now she 
first began to allow herself to note the silent *okens of his passionate 
admiration with sympathy and interest. She went so far as to ask her- 
self why she should waste the treasure of her love, by persisting in 
devoting it exclusively, though secretly, to a husband who regarded her, 
she was too fatally convinced, with more than the usual indifference and 
insensibility attributed to conjugal feelings. She sighed as she watched 
Capulet, at this very instant engaged in gallant assiduities and lively 
converse, by the side of one of the most distinguished beauties in the 
room ; while she could not help reverting in thought to the young 
Florentine, who stood a few paces from her, she knew, in patient hope of 
her looking towards him. She permitted her eyes to rest in that 
direction ; and the next moment brought him, elate and happy, to her 
side. Her heart involuntarily acknowledged the flattering homage of 
such watchful promptitude ; and the dangerous question arose within 
her, " Why may not I, as well as so many others, take comfort from a 
love that proffers itself to me, since I am denied the one I seek? Why 
should I not follow the example of other women, who console themselves 
with a lover's attachment, when that of a husband is withheld ? Why 
must I disdain a love so fervent as this youth's, and pine for an affection 
which I can never hope to gain ? Surely, I am perverse, — unreasonable, 
— ungrateful. Why not secure the happiness of being beloved, without 
scanning too curiously its source? I am ever marring my own content 
by a too careful 'solicitude. Those who are most happy, take least 
thought Let me be thoughtless and happy, like my neighbours." She 
turned to the young Florentine with the gay ease of manner suited to 
such a course of reflection ; and he was not slow to evince the joy with 
which it inspired him 



402 juliet ; 

Their conversation fell into a livelier strain than it had ever assumed 
before. Lady Capulet was animated by all the fire and vivacity of a 
half-formed, reckless resolution, to defy prudence, and its cold, calculating- 
dictates : while the prince, enchanted by her grace and condescension, 
gave freer rein than he had ever yet dared, to the expression of his 
delighted admiration. 

In a crowded room — in the midst of gay talkers like themselves — 
surrounded by company, and by a blaze of light, all this passed as mere 
social homage — the light gallantry suited to the scene and hour — no 
more. But when, on taking leave at the close of the evening, as he led 
her through the hall, towards her coach, the young prince, in an eager 
voice, which faltered and trembled with the consciousness of earnest 
meaning, that had deepened its tone from the high laughing pitch of 
their late converse, whispered an enquiry of whither her engagement 
would lead her on the following evening ? — at what party they should 
meet? — she felt that they stood committed to each other as they had 
never done before, by his manner, and by her hurried reply to it : — ; - Oh, 
T do not go out to-morrow ; I am at home." 

She would have given much to have recalled her words. It was too 
late. His eyes already showed the hope he had conceived from them — 
from her embarrassed answer to his agitated question. The cloak of 
pleasantry. — of mere passing gallantry — would no longer serve. She 
could not but feel she had acknowledged the seriousness of the sentiment 
with which he regarded her. 

" You will be at home — you will suffer me to come — " said the 
prince, in a glad low voice, raising her hand to his lips, as he placed her 
in her coach. She could only bow, as the equipage drove on. The 
young man's face, as she saw it at that last moment, beneath the high 
light of the lamps banging around the entrance, fully disclosed to her 
in its eagerness of hope, its concentration of youthful enthusiasm, its 
earnest devotion, remained stamped upon her imagination during the 
dark tranquil hours that succeeded. In the sobriety and silence of night, 
she still saw that handsome young face — handsome in its native beauty 
of feature, as in its still more impressive beauty of energetic feeling, 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 403 

and heartfelt expression. — and she then asked herself how she dared 
trifle with the sacred emotion she saw there depicted. •• This young 
man loves me — with as much of truth and sincerity in his passion, as 
such a passion hath in its nature," mused she. Shall I wrong him, by 
giving; him in exchange for his true affection, a counterfeit — a simulation 
of love ? Shall I wrong this young, earnest heart, by the pretence of a 
passion I know I can never feel 1 I know full well I can never give 
love — genuine love to any but one — why then deceive this youth with a 
false show of love, in return for the gift of his honest heart. Should I 
not rather try to disenchant him from his present belief? To open his 
eyes to the delusion which makes him fancy that his present passion is 
indeed true love 1 It is true — sincere — genuine — as far as his young 
unhackneyed heart knows of love. But such a nature as his is capable 
of a far higher sentiment than a passing passion for one who is already 
a wife. That which he at present feels. — powerful and genuine as it 
may be, in its degree — is yet but a mere foreshadowing of that all- 
absorbing one which he shall hereafter know, when he meets the woman 
whom he can make exclusively his own. To lead him to believe this, 
were a far nobler deed, than to attach him to my side, a mere conquest 
of heartless vanity. The prince's worth — his preference for me — should 
all engage me to the trial. It shall be made. Let me attempt one 
honest thing, in lieu of those forbidden deeds, near to which I've strayed 
too oft, of late, for peace of mind " 

This resolve was but confirmed next day. She sat, towards even- 
ing, her hands idling with silks and tapestry-needle, and thoughts bu- 
sied with the same subject. Her child, the little Juliet, was frolicking 
about the spacious apartment, at high romps with cousin Tybalt. The 
sight of the little creature, sporting to and fro. in all the innocent 
gaiety, activity, and animation of childish spirits, brought the mother's 
heart another powerful argument in support of her determination. It 
added the weight of yet another reason why she should not be misled 
into betraying both herself and another into the misery and delusion 
of an illicit attachment. It opened her eyes to the fallacy, the absurd 
chimera, the hollow mockery, of proposing as a consolation the substitu 



404 juliet ; 

tion of an unlawful passion for that which the heart claimed as its 
true, its rightful, its chosen happiness. She saw the folly no less 
than the criminality, of hoping to make another man's love supply the 
place of his to which a woman has a claim by her own exclusive pre- 
ference, as well as by wedlock ties. She felt the futility of the notion 
that a lover's liking, can console for the want of a husband's regard, — 
when that husband is beloved; she felt the utter mistake of attempting 
substitution in love, of one object for another, when the heart is once 
wholly, however hopelessly, — devoted. 

" For his sake, — no less than for my own, — I will be entirely frank 
with him. His nobleness deserves it;" she murmured to herself. 

"Juliet is tired with play; she'll rest now;" said the little girl, 
coming and sitting on the hassock at her mother's feet, and laying her 
head against her mother's knee. 

" Poor little creature ! Girls are soon wearied out ;" said Tybalt ; 
u they've good heart for play, but their sinews and muscles are nought. 
What a soft little peach cheek it is !" said he, giving her a gentle 
pinch on her rosy face, as he spoke. " And see what arms ! As smooth 
and as pulpy as curd — and well-nigh as white. Pretty ! But poor 
little things for hard work or hard play ! A game at ball makes 'em 
ache — a racket would tire 'em to death — and as for fencing — fancy a 
girl's arm wielding a good sword, or a rapier, for even a quarter of an 
hour. Why, a poniard would be too heavy for her to handle." 

" Fortunately, there's no need of our little Juliet's learning to de- 
fend herself ; she has a doughty champion in that master of fence, her 
young cousin ;" said lady Capulet, smiling. 

Her nephew turned on his heel. ' : Well, I'm off to the meadows, 
beyond the Amphitheatre ;" said he. " Some of our set promised to 
meet me there in the cool of the evening. I hope none of those Mon- 
tague fellows will dare to come and disturb us. We've taken a fancy 
to the spot for a play-ground ; and for their own sakes, they'd best not 
dispute the place with us " 

" Can't you all play together there V said his aunt ; " there's surely 
space enough." 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 405 

" As though you knew not, madam, that the same ground cannot 
contain Capulets and Montagues together ! I am a Capulet, heart and 

soul ; and I. there's no breathing-space for me, where one of those 

born-foes of ours — those Montagues, set their foot ! Best let them keep 
awayj or " 

" Nay, young cousin, no threatening looks ; no quarrelsome ges- 
tures. Thou know'st, my lord, thine uncle would be sore displeased 
were he to find thee ruffling and ranting, picking quarrels, giving and 
taking offence, and embroiling thyself in vexatious feuds with these 
youths of the Montague family. Although thine uncle hath little 
ground for aught but displeasure against the house of Montague, yet he 
deems it better befitting the honor of his own, to treat the members of 
theirs with quiet scorn, than open animosity. Take heed of this, I be- 
seech you, cousin Tybalt." 

The youth muttering with an ill grace a few words of half assent, 
flung out of the room. 

The little Juliet arose from her seat ; and leaning upon her mother's 
lap, and looking up in her face, she said : — " Take me up, mammina ; I 
want to be cuddled. Hug me well ; hug me in your arms." 

The child was very fond of nestling thus, held soft and close against 
her mother's bosom. She was a gentle, affectionate little creature ; 
demonstrative in her own manner, and loving to be petted and caressed, 
and made much of, in return. She had a pretty fondling way of climb- 
ing up upon her mother's knee, to kiss her, and to creep within her 
arms ; where she would lie quietly, and happily, without stirring for a 
considerable space of time, contented with the mere sense of repose, of 
snug safety, and pleasant cherishing. 

Now, tired out with her game of romps, lulled by the silence, com- 
posed into complete rest, by the comfort of her position (for who can 
hold a child with the magic, — the instinctive consulting of its accom- 
modation in every limb, as a mother does?) — the little one fell into a 
deep slumber. Lady Capulet still sat thus, when an attendant announ- 
ced his highness, the Florentine prince. 

The young man entered, and was coming towards her with an eager 



406 juliet ; 

step ; but the sight of the child sleeping in her arms, and, yet mo-re^ 
the calm of her own manner, seemed to affect him with a sudden impres« 
sion, that made him pause in his approach. 

The lady held out her hand smilingly, with a grave sweetness of 
look, and welcomed the prince ; while she besought his excuse that she 
could not rise to receive his grace, burdened as she was with the babe in 
her arms. 

He took the seat she proffered, on the couch beside her ; he raised 
the extended hand to his lips ; but there was something in the very 
frankness, and kind ease with which these courtesies were tendered by 
her, which made them somehow the less welcome to him. 

' : Tn the glare of a ball-room, in the confusion of a crowded assem- 
blage, your image intoxicated me with the majesty of its beauty," 
whispered the young prince ; " but in the tranquillity of this scene, my 
heart is subdued to the full sense of your perfections. It is your will, 
then, that I should be utterly powerless to restrain the avowal of the 
passionate admiration with which all this fills me ? You must have 
seen it ;" he hurried on ; " you must have perceived the rapture which 
the mere contemplation of your beauty, at humble, hopeless distance, 
caused me ; judge, then, how irrepressible the transport, which now 
hurries me into this mad avowal ; judge it — judge it leniently — and 
forgive it ; for it is you that have hastened it, by thus showing yourself 
to me, in your most winning, your most irresistible aspect. In your 
own home, in the gentle fulfilment of your motherly character, in the 
repose and retirement of such a scene as this — ah, a thousand times 
more irresistible, than in all the lustre of jewels, and of surrounding 
suffrage." 

Lady Capulet made no attempt to withdraw the hand he had seized, 
and upon which he was pouring out his ardour of declaration ; she even 
abandoned it to his grasp, and suffered him to press those kisses upon 
it, which he seemed no more able to restrain, than the passionate words 
he uttered. 

wi If I have myself brought on this avowal, as you say, my lord, 
believe that it was with no light thought of coquetry — no vain and 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 407 

heartless wish to secure to myself the honor of a conquest over such a 
heart as yours ; for to inspire even a passing liking in such a heart as 
your grace's, should be a triumph : but it is because I believe I know 
the full worth, the nobleness, the honor and generosity of that heart, 
that I now appeal to it, to strengthen me against the weaker part of 
myself, and to aid the higher and better part of my nature. I will con- 
fess to you, that I cannot take delight in such a passion as you avow. 
That even could I return it, it would be a source of misery and self- 
reproach to me, inasmuch as mutual, it would abase me in my own eyes, 
and existing on your side alone. I could not acquit myself of ingrati- 
tude. But I cannot return it : and I will not wrong you, by accepting 
a love which I cannot requite with one as sincere." 

' ; I pray you, bear with me, my lord, and hear out what I have to 
say ;" continued she, as she saw the prince about to interrupt her. il I 
will prove to you how highly I esteem the heart you offer me, by en- 
treating you to believe that it is capable of a far higher passion than the 
one you now believe it to be filled with. It is capable of love— exalted 
love — love for a pure woman ; such as I should not be. could I accept 
yours, ft is capable of love, exclusive love, for a woman whom you 
could make all your own ; it is capable of love, true and genuine love, 
for her who should be able to give you true and genuine love in return 
— which I never can." 

- But why — why may I not hope that the force of the passion I feel 
for you, shall in time excite some pity, some tenderness towards me ?" 
burst from the prince's lips. " Why did you encourage my hope by al- 
lowing me to come hither, to behold you in this soft, enchanting domes- 
ticity, to speak to you in this blessed' privilege of home-freedom, and 
ease of privacy, if you felt not some touch of compassion, which may 
bid me presage future and farther relenting ?" 

'• Forgive me, my lord, if I have indeed unwittingly caused you 
deeper pain by the step I have taken ; but I. could think of no other, 
than this, of perfect candor, to prove to you how high is my esteem and 
regard for yourself, and how anxiously I would preserve yours towards 
myself." 



408 JULIET ; 

" You would fain persuade me of your esteem, and you withhold 
your love ; you would accept my regard, while you reject my love ! Be 
generous, lady ; take what I lay at your feet ; and give that which I 
covet. Love, love alone will satisfy me ; — love bestowed and received." 

" Dear prince, I do love you. I love your worth, your nobility of 
soul. But it is because I do love them, that I desire to see their trea- 
sures reserved ; and not wasted upon one who has no affection with 
which to reward them. — one who is already a wife." Lady Capulet's 
voice sank to' a whisper, as she uttered these last words. 

;; And yet it is said that he to whom she belongs, is but too insensible 
of her merit ; that he devotes to idle gallantries, the time which he 
should dedicate to her perfections ;" said the prince. 

Lady Capulet writhed beneath this confirmation of the publicity to 
which her husband's preference for the society of other women had at- 
tained. But she would not let even this pang swerve her from the 
course she had resolved on. She paused for a second, as if to gather 
resolution ; then added, with a firmer tone : " I will be entirely frank 
with you. 1 will give you incontestable proof that I do indeed tender 
your worth dearly, by trusting it with a secret ; by confiding to you, my 
lord, my inmost heart, which has never been hitherto shown to a single 
human being, in the perfect unreserve that it is about to use towards 
you." 

Her manner involuntarily betrayed so deep an emotion, that the 
prince's sympathy could only show itself in a silent and earnest respect. 

" Pity me, my lord ;" she said. ' ; I love my husband ; and I have 
too fatal reason to believe that he loves not me." Her head sank on 
her bosom ; and a few tears of inexpressible bitterness fell from her 
eyes. In another moment she struggled to resume composure ; the 
voice was saddened and tremulous, — though it gained firmness as she 
went on. — with which she said: — " You now know why it is impossible 
I can give you the passionate feeling which can alone duly reward that 
which you at present unhappily entertaiu for me, dear prince. I am 
too proud to sue, where I could wish to reign. The heart of the man 
I love must make me its mistress, by willing gift of itself to me ; not 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 409 

by cession. I cannot demand, what I even die to want : and if I am 
never to possess my husband's love, but by a mean appeal to his pity. 
I will go to my grave unblest, I can never cease to desire it : but I 
will never entreat for it. He shall never know from me. unsolicited by 
him. the love that exists in my heart. But as I feel that that love will 
ever exist : that no other love will ever supplant or extinguish it. so 
believe, dear friend, that I have no hope to offer you ; and that I should 
have done an injury to your noble heart, had I not confided all to it, 
thus ingenuously." 

The prince had no words for the fulness of his feelings ; but his eyes, 
and the fervour of his manner, spoke sufficingly. 

" Since I see that I have your sympathy, your interest in my behalf, 
doar prince, let me ask one comfort at your hands." 

"It is your own generous heart, that in its kindliness, devises com- 
fort for me. by telling me how I may minister to yours, dear lady ;" mur- 
mured the prince. 

" Well then, grant me this boon : let me have your friendship instead 
of the love, of which I confess myself unworthy : and to your friend 
make promise that you will use your best endeavour to withdraw your af- 
fection whence it at present harbours, that you may have the inestimable 
gift ready to bestow on the best and fairest lady you can find. To the 
end that you may make diligent search for such a woman, you shall give 
me your word that you will bid farewell to Verona for the space of a 
twelvemonth. 1 ' 

" You banish me then from your side ?" said the young prince. 
" You talk of friendship. — of confidence in me : and you will not trust 
me" 

- Be reasonable, dear friend :" she said gently. ;: Let us be honest 
with each other, and with ourselves. Such trust, is rashness. — hazard : 
not trust. It is no proof of kindness and confidence, to charge you with 
an onerous trial of fortitude — to burden you with a perpetual temptation 
Travel for a year. Return at the end of that period, if you will, to your 
friend : and tell her that change of scene, fresh ideas, have stimulated 
you to worthier ambitions, while they have been successful in effacing the 
old weakness." 



410 juliet; 

" I shall but have to tell her that my friendship, call it how I may, is 
still, must ever be, love, — love alone ;" sighed the prince. 

" Believe me, dear, dear friend," said lady Capulet, with an earnest- 
ness that spoke her sincerity, ' : I would far rather find you anew devoted, 
than' constant. Bring me a bride in your hand; and your old love will 
rejoice, as her and your true friend." 

The prince shook his head. But her manner was too kind, and calm- 
ly affectionate, for him to offer one word in opposition to her expressed 
hope. 

" I may never hope for such another opportunity of taking my leave 
unwitnessed, dearest lady. I cannot submit to part from you, in the 
presence of strangers, and in conventional form. After what has pass- 
ed between us — after all your sweet candour, your gentle goodness — you 
must ever be a woman apart from all others in my heart and imagination. 
Let me bid you farewell at once. To-morrow I shall set out on my pil- 
grimage, in obedience to your wish. Heaven have you evermore in its 
care ! And find some waj r , in its own wisdom, to bring consolation to your 
wounded heart, as you have to-day dealt consolingly and tenderly with 
mine. God bless you, beloved lady !" 

The prince knelt at her feet ; and straining her hand against his bo- 
som, held it there, whilst he fixed his eyes upon hers in a mute leave-ta- 
king. 

Lady Capulet could not refuse to their passionate supplication, the 
farewell token they besought ; she stooped forward, and pressed her lips 
upon his eye-lids, as she echoed the valediction. 

The prince, for one instant, passed his hand round her head, and 
drew her face closer against his own ; then starting up without another 
word or look, he hurried away. 

He had not been gone many minutes, when Capulet entered the room, 
with an open letter in his hand. He was in great perturbation ; and in 
his usual exclamatory, incoherent way, gave vent to his agitation, stam- 
mering out its cause : — 

" See here, my dear Angelica ! This terrible letter ! My poor friend ! 
What must be his grief ! And her unhappy mother, too ! Ah ! the 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 411 

sweet, sweet Leomlda ! So young, so light-hearted ! To be snatched 
away in the very flower of her age ! A flower ! A very blossom !" 

Lady Capulet turned deadly pale. " How, my lord ? What mean 
you ? Can it be that " She gasped. She could not speak the ter- 
rible question. 

" Too true ! Too true ! Alas, alas ! The poor young thing ! The 
sweet Leonilda ! She is dead ! My good Angelica ; I see that thy kind 
heart feels this blow. I was too sudden in telling thee the news. The 
wretched parents ! My poor friend ! Too well he knew — but I must 
hasten to him. I have ordered horses — I shall set forth instantly, to 
carry what comfort I can, to my unhappy friend. He knew I loved her 
with well-nigh as fond and fatherly an affection as his own. Yes, yes, 
my presence will be a comfort— I will set forth at once. Lie thee down, 
gentle Angelica. Lie back on this couch. There, there ! I did wrong 
to break the fatal news so abruptly to thee. I should have used more 
precaution. But who can think wisely in time of trouble 1 Not I, alas ! 
my brain and heart are confused together. Let me place the child by 
thee ; she hath not awakened with all this misery. Poor little innocent ! 
Thou'rt ghastly white, kind wife ; thy very lips are colorless. 'Tis thy 
good heart ! I will send thy women to thine aid. Meantime, fare thee 
well, I must away. Thou thyself wilt bid me lose no moment, I know, 
in hastening to my poor friends. 

Her husband stooped : kissed her forehead ; and then bustled away, 
with tip-toe step, and fussy ostentation of quiet ; in his own peculiar 
fashion. 

Lady Capulet lay perfectly still. She had not fainted ; but she was 
as if stunned, by the announcement of Leonilda's death. Could she 
doubt to whom this death was owing ? Was it less her deed, than if 
she had dealt the stroke with her own hand ? There had been no hint 
that the letter contained any allusion to violent, or suspiciously sudden 
death. But she remembered only too well, that Onofrio had distinctly 
said, the murder should be so effected, as to leave no trace of outrage. 
She was then a murderess ! — a secret assassin ! 

The little Juliet, whom her father had placed on the couch beside 



412 juliet; 

lady Capulet, now stirred and awoke. The child raised itself on its 
arm, and looked about ; then seeing where it was, crawled, crowing and 
laughing, over its mother, and began patting her face, to coax her into 
a game of baby play. Shrinking from its innocent mirth and caresses, 
as something she had no right to indulge in, — blackened and guilty as 
she felt, — lady Capulet was relieved, when the nurse and other women 
attendants came into the room, to take away the little one, and to offer 
assistance. 

She declined this latter, saying she had not swooned, but wished to 
remain where she was ; desiring that she might be left perfectly undis- 
turbed. 

Her own women obediently withdrew ; but the nurse, accustomed 
in her domestic capacity, and from indulgence, to have her own way, 
officiously insisted upon staying to cheer her poor lady with some re- 
marks upon the calamity that had occurred. 

" The messenger, who brought the letter to my lord, was taking a 
flask of wine, and a ration, after his hard ride, — well, sorrow's dry, and 
aqua vitse moistens grief not amiss, — when I chanced to go below. Now 
I'm above mixing and consorting with the flirt-gills of maids, and saucy 
jacks and knaves of fellows, the lower-servants, being as I'm an upper- 
servant myself, — but sometimes for change, and for kindness' sake, I do 
go among 'em for an odd quarter-hour or so — so I heard the groom- 
messenger tell our Peter of the sad mishap of his young lady's death. 
Poor lamb ! It seems she was found dead in her bed, as composed as 
you please. She must ha' died in her sleep, with a prayer in her 
mouth, for she was smiling like any angel, and her hands were folded 
like a saint's on a tombstone. No chrisom babe, safe be-hung with relics 
and pazienzi, is surer than she is, of going to Heaven, — rest her soul !" 

" Pr'ythee, good nurse, leave me, I would fain be alone ;" murmured 
lady Capulet. 

" Well ! we must all die, Lord knows ; more's the pity. But for 
one so young, and so full of life and spirit, and so blooming, — the joy 
and very apple of her parents' eyes, as I may say, poor folks ; 'twould 
ha' been well for them, if they, instead of her, had been called away J 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 413 

But th-ere's no picking rotten-ripe, nor yet mellow fruit, 'mongst those 
one 'd choose for Death's devouring. He hath a sweet tooth in his 
skull, and he'll e'en pluck the sweetest and freshest first, an' he takes 
the fancy. There was my own honey-tempered Susan, pretty pippin ! 
a sweeter babe ne'er drew breath, so good, and so milk-mild ! Well, 
she was too sweet for me. so Heaven let Death take her." 

" In pity, good nurse, leave me for a season ; I think I could rest :" 
again pleaded her mistress. 

" Ay. do ; we all have need of rest ! ; Tis a sorrowful world ! 
Heaven rest all Christian souls ! Poor young lady ! Well, grieving 
won't bring her back out of her grave !" And at length the nurse took 
her departure. 

The instant she had left the room, lady Capulet got up from the 
couch, and staggered into the balcony that overhung their spacious gar- 
dens. Here she drew freer breath. She could bare her forehead to the 
cool air of evening ; she could look forth upon the extent of lawn and 
grove ; she could let her spirit range abroad, and her eyes wander into 
the blue sky. high and remote among the few stars, that were now be- 
ginning to shine forth. She seemed able to cast off that stifling oppres- 
sion which had weighed upon her. whilst lying there, within the room. 
To woo yet farther this sense of relief, she left the house, and went forth 
into the garden ; where she could join freedom of movement to freedom 
of breathing. The fresh air, together with the action, restored her to 
herself; and she continued for some time pacing up and down one of 
the broad paths, where the gentle plashing of a fountain was the only 
sound that broke the prevailing stillness. Evening deepened into night. 
and the stars had become myriad, ere the lady thought of resting. She 
instinctively wished to tire out her body, that it might become exhaust- 
ed, and^so her mind be compelled to find a respite with it. from the ter- 
rible unrest that kept possession of her. Just as she, at length, thought 
of allowing herself to sit for awhile, upon one of the garden-seats, a man 
stole from one of the covered alleys near to where she stood. 

It was Onofrio. 

She with difficulty suppressed a cry of horror, at the sight of him 



414 JULIET*, 

u : Begone ! Murderer ! ruffian ! What do jou here ?" burst from hei 
lips in vehement whisper. 

" You have heard then ? — you know, — you have learned, that fate 
hath " 

She scarcely listened to his words, in her agitation. 

" Begone I say, villain !" she repeated. " How dar'st thou venture 
hither, after thy black deed 1 Begone, I say !" 

She had put her hand before her eyes, or she would have seen the 
look of surprise that came upon his face. 

" Not so, lady ;" he said, after a moment's pause. " Why should I 
be gone, when I came expressly to tell you, that your wish is accomplish- 
ed. She you hated, is removed from your path ; the bearer of such 
tidings, should deserve welcome — reward — not reviling." 

" Accurst the hour when first I beheld thee, fellow. It was thou who 
temptedst my soul astray, by offering the very means of evil, I could not 
otherwise have commanded. But for thee, I had been still guiltless." 

" Be not so sure of that, madam ;" said the fellow. " Once wish such 
evil may befal, and the soul is already on its way to seek the means. 
Had you not stumbled on myself to place them within your grasp, you 
would soon have hit upon other means of compassing your purpose. 
However, that may be, your purpose is accomplished — your ends are 
gained. It is fit that I should obtain mine. My object is more money. 
I cannot live without it — I must have it. So give me some." 

" Dost thou dare to ask more of me ?" said lady Capulet. 

" Nay, madam, the purse you gave me when we spoke together in 
yonder old church, is empty — all gone. I must have more. I tell you, 
I cannot live without it ; and I desire to live." 

" How, villain ? Dost thou think I will aid thee to live — I who 
know " 

" Tush, madam," interrupted Onofrio ; " we both know that of each 
other, which makes it safest to agree together. I will deliver you of my 
presence, — which seems less welcome than I could have supposed, con- 
sidering the news I bring, — and you will deliver me the sum I re- 
quire." 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 415 

" What is the sum you require ?" said she, hastily. 

" What have you about you, madam ?" he said. 

She drew forth her purse. He examined it quickly. " 'T is well 
filled — and with gold — it shall suffice ; for the present, at least. Mean- 
time, farewell, lady. I will not linger, both for mine own sake, and for 
yours ; and moreover, for the sake of my promise to you, which I thus 
promptly keep, to show you good example for the future, — when we 
may meet again. Now, farewell !" 

He was gone ; and lady Capulet fled back to the house. 

When Capulet returned home, his wife had the repeated agony of 
hearing all the circumstances of Leonilda's death related, with every 
variety of detail and comment. 

He dwelt, with the sincere regret of a friend, mixed with all the 
mournful complacency of a gossip-lover, upon the particulars of the event, 
as well as upon the consequent grief of the parents, and the general con- 
sternation of the household. For it was awfully sudden at last, he said, 
although he and his friend, her poor father, had known for some time 
that it must happen. 

In answer to the involuntary expression of surprise that escaped lady 
Capulet at these words of her husband's, he went onto explain, that, just 
previous to the conclusion of their first visit to Mantua, she might re- 
member that Leonilda's father had been so much indisposed as to keep 
his 'bed ; that this indisposition had been in consequence of his having 
learned from the physician who attended in the house, that the young, 
apparently so blooming, so healthful Leonilda, was the victim of a secret 
insidious disorder, which might carry her off at any given moment. That 
she had, in fact, a heart-disease, from which nothing could save her. 
That it was the knowledge of this circumstance confided by the unhappy 
father to himself, which had caused Capulet's settled melancholy, on the 
occasion of their leaving their friends' house. He told his wife that he 
had been enjoined, nay vowed to secrecy, by his friend, lest by any 
chance, the knowledge of her daughter's peril should reach the mother ; 
and that this had been the reason of his never having breathed a word 
on the subject, even to her. He said that when he had last left Mantua, 



416 JULIET; 

his hopes had revived ; for Leonilda had been so more than usually well 
and gay, that he could not believe her to be doomed to early death. He 
and his friend had succeeded in persuading each other, that the physi- 
cian's fears had magnified the reality — certainly the imminence of the 
danger : and had accordingly indulged hopefuller thoughts, and higher 
spirits. But alas ! The blow had fallen when least expected. She had 
taken leave of her parents at night, all apparent health and animation ; 
and in the morning, she was found dead. The features were calm — the 
limbs composed — but they had evidently been many hours cold. Un- 
happily, the help she might have had, when first seized, was not at hand ; 
for it was found that her waiting-maid, Petronilla, who usually slept in 
the dressing-room adjoining her young lady's bed-chamber, had that very 
night absconded, — it was supposed, in company with a man of disrepu- 
table character, who had long been known to court the girl, and had 
often been caught lurking about the grounds. This last circumstance it 
was, which (joined to the confirmation afforded by her late interview with 
the villain himself) destroyed lady Capulet's scarce-born hope that 
Leonilda 1 s death might, after all, have been owing to natural causes, and 
not to the murderous hand of Onofrio. She too well felfc, that though 
the unhappy parents, and her own husband, had not a suspicion but that 
Leonilda had submitted to a decree of -Heaven's will, in the mortal disor- 
der with which it had seen fit to visit her, — yet that she alone knew the 
secret of her fate. She knew that Onofrio's connection with the treach- 
erous Petronilla, had afforded the facile means of his entering her lady's 
sleeping-room, where he had doubtless effected his purpose, stopping her 
breath, as she lay, in her bed. 

The lady was spared no item of the fearful detail. She was forced 
to hear over and over again all the minutiae ; from the pale face of the 
victim, when the body was discovered, and the despair of the father and 
mother, down to the amazement of her fellow-servants at Petronilla's 
flight. " And one of the strangest circumstances in the whole affair, is,'* 
Capulet would add. " that although not a doubt can be entertained, that 
the wench went off with the fellow, — robber, thief, and for aught I know, 
cut-throat as he may be — she did not touch a single article of her mis- 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 417 

tress's property. Leonilda's jewel-case was unrifled — not so much as a 
grain of coral taken. What the girl's object, in leaving so kind a mis- 
tress as sweet Leonilda ever was, cannot be guessed at. But love. I 
suppose ! It's the way with them all ! The baggage could not resist a 
Soft speech or two, I'll be bound. Like her betters ! like her bet- 
ters !" 

But lady Capulet's severest trial was still to come. Her husband, in 
his kindly-meant endeavour to withdraw the afflicted parents from their 
brooding grief, entreated them to quit the monotony and seclusion of 
their own home, and come to his. for a time. He invited, them to 
Verona, that its society, its stir, and animation, might afford a salutary 
distraction to their sorrow. The mere change of scene, he contended, 
would do them good. They yielded to their friend's urgency, and 
came. 

It was the sight of them, which formed lady Capulet's crudest pen- 
ance. As she beheld those mourning habits, those woe-begone faces, the 
forlorn misery of those desolate parents, and conscience whispered to 
whom they owed their desolation, she could scarce endure the load of 
remorse that weighed her to the very earth. As she viewed their fresh 
burst of sorrow, at sight of the little Juliet, her heart smote her with the 
thought of who it was that had bereft them of their only child. She 
asked herself in the bitterness of her soul's self-reproach, how she deserv- 
ed the blessing of a daughter, who had deprived this father and mother 
of theirs. Truly, her pangs were fierce enough, to punish even her 
guilt. 

So little, however,, is often guessed of the true springs of feeling, by 
human beings most nearly associated, that these throes of her accusing 
conscience passed for the emotions of generous sympathy : and raised 
lady Capulet in the eyes of her husband, for the evidence they gave of 
tenderness towards their unhappy friends in their distress. When her 
eyes were unable to meet theirs from inward reproof, she seemed but 
sharing their downcast sorrow ; and while most self-abased and con- 
scious of having caused their unhappiness, she looked most warmly pene- 
trated with interest in its present sufferings. These tokens, as they 



418 juliet; 

appeared to her friends themselves, of loving sympathy with their afflic- 
tions, on the ' part of lady Capulet, endeared her especially to them. 
They felt grateful and peculiarly soothed, that one who usually had the 
name of being somewhat lofty, reserved, and even cold in character, 
should show herself thus compassionate and tender in their behalf; 
and this preference, this gratitude of theirs, so ill merited, was an ad- 
ditional sting to lady Capulet, — another bitter drop in the penal draught 
she now daily and hourly swallowed. 

Among the diversions which Capulet's well-intended zeal devised 
for the entertainment of his friends, was a gladiatorial exhibition to be 
given in the arena of the Verona amphitheatre. All the fashionable 
world were to be there ; and he insisted that the sight, the society, the 
animation and excitement of the scene, would serve to revive and in- 
terest them. As usual, they yielded to the bustling precipitancy with 
which he always settled a point of this sort. 

He made a large party of friends. — his own peculiar adherents, and 
favorite associates, which included an extensive circle. There were 
seats taken beforehand, for the occasion ; and there was much bowing, 
and recognition, and friendly greeting, among the various parties, as 
they successively arrived, forming together, one vast concourse. The 
entire bulk of Verona's inhabitants seemed assembled there; the royal 
suite, consisting of the Scaligeri family, — then rulers in Verona, — oc- 
cupied a sort of covered dais, or place of honor, erected over the princi- 
pal entrance ; the nobility and gentry filled the spacious ranges of 
seats, that encircled the amphitheatre ; while the mob of commonalty, 
attendants, artizans, labourers, idlers, the poorer order of all kinds, 
were permitted to fill the standing-room, in the vomitories, or gateways, 
affording entrance to, or egress from, the amphitheatre. 

Among some of the first arrivals in the vast assemblage, was Cap- 
ulet's large party. As they were about to take their places, a sort of 
tumult arose. There was some misunderstanding, apparently, about 
the occupancy of certain seats, a mistake as to the order of time in 
their having been bespoken, a difference of opinion as to the right of 
precedency ; it was scarcely discoverable, what was the precise origin of 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 419 

the contention. But contention there evidently was. Tybalt's voice 
was heard high in dispute. Dissension swelled into quarrelling. — quar- 
relling into brawl. Taunts were bandied to aud fro ; threats were mut- 
tered and exchanged ; defiance was hurled at each other; rapiers and 
poniards were drawn. It threatened to grow into a serious affray ; 
when the arrival of the prince Escalus, and the rest of the royal party, 
stilled the disputants, and compelled them to give up the contest. It 
was generally whisperecV-that the two great rival factions, the two prin- 
cipal houses in Verona — the Montagues and the Capulets — seized this 
opportunity of showing some of their scarce-smothered rancour against 
each other : but the majority of reports agreed in allowing that young 
Tybalt had been niost rash and violent in his demostrations of insolence 
and stubbornness when asserting his right to the disputed places: 
while the youthful Romeo. — lord Montague's son. — had behaved with 
great spirit and temper : and that, indeed, it was mainly owing to his 
gallant forbearance, that the matter ended more amicably than might 
have been at first expected. Many agreed, that though a mere strip- 
ling in years, he had evinced the judgment and grace of a finished 
gentleman ; and augured highly of his future excellence. These 
praises of young Montague seemed particularly to gall master Tybalt, 
who could not repress his ill-humour for some time after he had rejoined 
his uncle's party and taken his seat among them. He continued to 
vent "disdainful mutterings against ' : that Romeo boy — that Montague 
fellow — who with the rest of his tribe, Benvolio. and the others, hold 
their heads so high. And all, forsooth, on account of their having got 
among their set, that lad Mercutio, a scape-grace ; a good-for-nought : 
but because he can claim kindred with prince Escalus, must needs be 
esteemed a worthy companion, whose society is an honor. Why, we 
number among our set, a kinsman of the Prince's, too, if that be all ; 
young Paris, a count, and a very king of good fellows. He never con- 
tradicts, — never opposes. He is a chum worth having. But as for 
Mercutio, that those chaps Romeo and Benvolio, are so proud of know- 
ing, why he " 

" Come, come, let's have no more of this vulgar sneering ; 'tis un- 



420 jultet ; 

seemly — 'tis not gentlemanly — let's have no more of it, nephew ;" said 
Capulet. " The lads are well-conducted lads, as I hear ; though I take 
little heed of the Montagues, and their promising scions, any more than 
thou dost. Still let us treat them like gentlemen, while we meet only 
on neutral and social ground." 

" Then I care not how soon I meet them on ground where I may 
tell them my mind plainly, with my hand and arm to enforce my plain 
meaning, uncle ;" retorted Tybalt. " The open field would be the best 
ground I could meet them on, to give them a taste of my meanings — 
both mentally and bodily." 

" Meantime, hold thy peace, until thou canst declare war, good cav- 
aliero nephew ; I tell thee this is no place for mutterings and defiance." 

The youth bit his lips, to conceal his mortification at his uncle's 
rebuke ; but he obeyed, and spoke no word more during the remainder 
of the show. 

The sports in the arena proceeded. 

Lady Capulet had her little girl upon her knee, the father having 
wished Juliet to be brought, thinking the show would amuse her. The 
mother had been sitting lost in thought, little attentive to the scene that 
was passing before her, when she suddenly felt the soft hand of her 
child against her cheek, drawing her face down to hearken, while she 
whispered : — " Mammina, who is yonder man, that keeps his staring 
eyes fixed upon us?" 

Lady Capulet looked in the direction of Juliet's other hand, which 
pointed towards one of the vomitories nearest to the spot where they 
were seated. Among the crowd, she distinctly saw the man her child 
meant. It was Onofrio. 

She felt herself turn sick and faint, and deadly white. She closed 
her eyes for a moment ; struggling for composure, for strength, to pre- 
vent herself from swooning as she sat. Presently she heard her little 
one murmur, as if relieved at getting rid of an ugly sight : — " He's 
gone now. I'm glad." 

She took courage to open her eyes, and turn them towards the spot 
he had so lately occupied. He was no longer there. And the mother, 
too, took a deep breath ; of relief, of satisfaction. 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 421 

The little Juliet Lad a remarkable shrinking from all disagreeable, 
painful, or offensive objects. She had none of the curiosity, or excite- 
ment, about distasteful things, that some children cannot help feeling. 
She seemed to have an instinctive avoidance for whatever could shock, 
or disgust, or displease her ; while, on the contrary, towards aught that 
possessed beauty, or grace, in shape, color, or intrinsic quality, she was 
irresistibly attracted. She loved flowers ; she was fond of smelling 
them, playing with them, and contrasting their varied form and hue. 
She loved all the beauties of sky and landscape ; and took more plea- 
sure in natural objects than a child of her age usually demonstrated. 
She liked, too, looking at pictures She took a fancy to all handsome, 
pleasant-mannered people ; and hung about those who were soft-voiced, 
gentle, and kind. She was ne^er shy with strangers; excepting with 
those who were forbidding, either in person or behaviour. She mani- 
fested her preferences in a very ingenuous, unmistakeable mode ; and 
would hold up her rosy mouth in thanks, or wind her little arms around 
the neck of those to whom she was partial. 

But return to the amphitheatre. During the continuance of tne 
entertainment, lady Capulet saw no more of the face that had so struck 
her child, even at first sight ; and herself, on only too fatal a recognition. 
But at the close, as their party were making their way through the 
crowd, to their coaches ; there, in the midst of the throng, the lady 
again- beheld Onofrio. He was evidently watching for her. Their eyes 
met; and she vainly endeavoured to master the agitation that took pos- 
session of her. He made no attempt, however, to address her, but 
stood motionless ; apparently, merely one of the gazing idlers, who 
loitered there to see the grandees pass to their equipages. But she had 
nearly betrayed herself, by the mingled terror, shame, and anger, that 
burned within her, when she saw the ruffian actually come in contact 
with those two unhappy parents, whom he had rendered childless. To 
her unspeakable abhorrence, both of herself and of him, she saw the 
fellow, as they passed close to the spot where he stood, instead of re- 
ceding, and withdrawing from their path, suffered them to touch him, — 
him who had been their daughter's murderer. 



422 juliet ; 

Had her life depended on it, she could not Have forborne the wither- 
ing glance she cast upon the villain for his hardened audacity ; but he 
did not seem to heed it. His hard mahogany face preserved the same 
unmoved look, with which he had regarded her from the first. 

Some days elapsed ; and then their Mantuan friends besought Cap- 
ulet and his lady to excuse them, but they could no longer conceal from 
themselves that their own home was after all the only place where they 
could hope to find resignation beneath their load of sorrow ; solitude, se- 
clusion, they said, best assorted with their withered hopes ; and that if 
any chance of restored serenity remained for them, it was there they 
must seek it. They thanked his friendly zeal for the cure it had sought 
to effect : but they felt it was a vain expectation. 

There was no gainsaying these bruised and broken hearts. They 
took leave of their friends ; and on both sides, it was felt that the fare- 
well, was tti all probability, eternal. 

Full of the thoughts to which their departure gave fresh poignancy, 
lady Capulet rambled slowly along the banks of the Adige. She had 
been taking her little girl an evening walk by the river side, attended 
only by her nurse, to carry the child, when it was tired of being on its feet. 
The lady's fit of abstraction, had rendered her no very amusing compan- 
ion ; and the little Juliet receiving few answers from her mother, to her 
lively questions, had lingered behind to prattle with her nurse. They 
were thus, some considerable distance in the rear of her, when lady Cap- 
ulet was startled from her reverie, by a well-known voice not far from 
her. Her eyes had been fixed on the ground, in her deep musing, but 
though she raised them, and cast them hurriedly around, she could see no 
one. But she heard the voice of Onofrio say : — " I am near to you, 
but I do not step from my concealment, for your sake, as you would 
probably not care to have me seen by other eyes than your own. Send 
the child and her attendant away ; I must speak with you." 

" By what right, dare you dictate thus to me ?" and she trembled as 
much with resentment, as with fear. 

' ; You know best by what right. I need not remind you of the par- 
ley in the old church — of the night conference in your own garden — of 
her whom you — — " 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 423 

" Be silent !" she exclaimed. Then, turning, she met the nurse, who 
was advancing with the child in her arms. The little Juliet, partly by 
dint of talking and walking, partly owing to the fresh air from the wa- 
ter, was looking sleepy, and was drowsily leaning her head upon the 
nurse's shoulder. 

Lady Capulet took advantage of this circumstance to bid her woman 
hasten home with the child, that it might not risk taking cold by sleep- 
ing in the open air. 

As the nurse obeyed and returned quickly to the house, lady Capulet 
thought. - ; How low am I fallen, when a paltry excuse, a mean subter- 
fuge is seized, to evade a servant's observation ! 0. fatal first step in 
guilt ! To what vile and pitiful shifts as to what enormity of crime may 
you lead !" 

Onofrio stood beside her. 

K Best waste no time, lady, for your sake, and mine own. We may 
be seen, and neither you nor I, care to attract curious eyes." 

There was something in the way in which the fellow always contrived 
to remind her of the hold he had upon her, from the circumstance which 
had associated them, by speaking of her and himself thus together, in a 
tone of joint equality, and familiar ease, particularly goading to the lofty 
lady Capulet. But she repressed the words which arose to her lips in 
reproof of his manner. 

- I want more money — much more :" he went on. " I must have 
enough to last me some time ; for there's hard ado to get at you, when 
I need fresh supplies. I saw you up yonder at the amphitheatre, t'other 
day ; but I had too much consideration for a lady's scruples, to address 
you before all your fine friends. I have some generous feeling for you 
— for you have shown me some, — nay, much. But you must reward me 
for my forbearance. If you want me not to haunt your steps, to dog your 
path, at every turn, you must make it worth my while. — you must put 
it in mine own power, — to keep away. Give me money enough to live 
upon, far from here." 

" What sum will sufiice ?" she said. 

He named a large one. 



424 juliet; 

" I have not nearly so much with me. Do you imagine that I carry 
a sum in my purse, that might tempt a chance robber to way-lay me, as 
we 1 ! as be at hand to satisfy the extortion of a known ruffian ?" 

" Neither taunts, nor hard names shall move me from my purpose, 
madam. You are welcome to use them ; they are some ease to the heart, 
I know. So out with them, as often, and with as many of them, as you 
choose ; but consider whether it be for your own advantage, to stay 
bandying them here with me, at the hazard of incurring eaves-droppers' 
notice." 

" If I consent to give you the sum you ask, where and how can 1 
convey it to you?" she asked. 

" I will make that sure, lady. You have a key to the garden-gate 
which, I know, admits you from this river-side walk to your own grounds. 
I have too long prowled about them, for some time past, in hope of meet- 
ing you a second night, walking abroad as before, not to know every 
lawn, grove, terrace, and gate, in the whole range of gardens. I will 
follow you thither. I will take your promise that you lose no time in 
going straight to the house, to your own room ; that you will provide 
yourself with the sum I have named, and return without delay to the 
close embowered-alley, by the fountain, — the spot where we met once be- 
fore. Grive me your word that you will do this, and I will pledge mine 
in return, to carry all discreetly, and to leave you in peace for a long 
space of time — for as long a space, as I can make make my money eke 
out a living." 

" And if I refuse to comply with the terms of this infamous exac- 
tion '?" said lady Capulet. 

" I shall know how to make my claims heard ;" he said promptly and 
calmly. (1 1 shall know how to gain them more numerous auditors, as 
well as more attentive listeners, than the lady who hath the spirit to em- 
ploy an assassin, but, the meanness to grudge him his hire. Fetch the 
money, madam ; you had best, depend on't — for both our sakes." 

They had reached the garden-gate he had alluded to, by this time. 
Lady Capulet entered ; sped to her own room ; took from her cabinet the 
amount demanded (for her husband's wealth, and lavish allowance caused 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA 425 

her to be never unfurnished with a considerable sum) ; found Onofrio 
where she had appointed; and giving it into his hands, was once again 
freed from his presence. 



Time passed. Months, years, passed ; and at length, so long a space 
of time elapsed, without lady Capulet's having seen or heard anything 
more of Onofrio, that she gradually allowed herself to indulge the hope 
of being indeed released from that accusing presence, — of being freed 
once and for ever, by his death. The first time this thought flashed up- 
on her, she felt as though a dread shadow had been removed from her 
path through life, — as though a blessed light of comfort, and renewed 
strength were shed upon her existence. It seemed as if now she could 
look up with a cheerful trust, that future good resolves and acts should 
be permitted to expiate former errors of intention and of deed. She 
felt that she could commence in earnest, and with the encouragement and 
solace which virtuous purpose inspires, a new. course of moral being. 
Time had worked its sobering effect upon the passions which had so agi- 
tated her soul in early youth. She grew reconciled to her position : nay, 
satisfied with the attachments that were hers. She learned to look for 
happiness from the affections, instead of perpetually craving after an 
ideal regard. She was now contented to accept the affectionate esteem, 
the kindness, the indulgence of her husband, in lieu of that warmth of 
love, that refined and exclusive preference, which her girlish heart and 
imagination had so pined for. She came to take pride and interest in 
the development of that matchless beauty in her young daughter, which 
manifested itself more and more with each year, rather than to indulge, 
as formerly, in ner own engrossing thoughts, and self contemplative 
feelings. 

Juliet's loveliness of person, while still a mere girl, was remarkable. 
She inherited her mother's strikingly beautiful features, with more soft- 
ness of expression ; her perfection of shape, and dignity of mien, with 
even yet more of winning grace, and suavity in motion. Her father, 
too, was a handsome man ; his limbs were elegantly turned ; he had 



426 juliet ; 

white, well-shaped hands, and small dapper feet ; he possessed a certain 
aristocratic bearing, and conventional elegance of demeanour (when in 
society, and not bustling and fussing amid domesticities), which were 
very prepossessing. All the most attractive points in her. father, Juliet 
inherited, together with those which distinguished her mother ; while 
in herself, her parents' personal advantages shone with an added charm 
of their own. She would have been a celebrated beauty already ; had 
not the accustomed retirement of a young Italian maiden's life, de- 
tained her hitherto from general gaze. Her father's mansion, its gar- 
den grounds, formed the limits to her sphere of existence. Here she 
dreamed away her life, in a succession of smiling hours ; a child in 
thought, a child in feeling, a child in pursuit and amusement. 

One morning a friend of lady Capulet's came to pay her a visit ; and 
began telling her with much eagerness about a matter, which, she said, 
she had greatly at heart. 

" I own I wish to carry this point, my dear lady Capulet ;" said her 
friend ; " and I want your aid, as together, I feel sure, we shall succeed. 
I think you will feel with me, that the poor young thing has been 
aggrieved by this unwarrantable report ; and if it be allowed to gain 
ground, by any show of credence on the part of us Yerona ladies, her 
character is lost." 

" But, my dear friend, you have not yet told me of whom you are 
speaking ; nor the circumstances which interest you in her behalf, and 
which are to interest me ;" said lady Capulet, smiling. 

" Ah ! just like my giddy head ! My heart always whirls it round 
and round, and away from the subject it ought to keep to. The more 
my heart takes a settled interest in any matter, the more it unsettles 
my head. Let's see ! where ought I to begin ! Oh. — you must know 
that there is a charming young creature, named Virginia di Coralba 
(sweet name, isn't it ? her very name, as I say, seems to bespeak her 
purity,) lately arrived in Yerona. She is, it seems, an orphan, a rich 
heiress (by the way I forget where her estates lie — but somewhere in 
Calabria, I think she .says), travelling about for the benefit of her 
health, which has suffered much, I understand, from grief at the loss of 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 427 

her parents. "Well, would you believe it, my dear creature, that from 
Venice (where last she was staying for a time), there have come certain 
whispers, which, if believed, would be highly prejudicial to the charac- 
ter of this sweet young woman. Now I have been introduced to her 
(by my husband, who met some distant connections of hers in the 
south, he says, when he made a tour there, some years ago, as a young 
man) ; and from what I see of her, and hear of her (for she talks with 
such charming discretion and modesty, and plays the lute like an angel), 
T won't believe one word of these scandalous tales. To show that I 
won't, and don't, I'm determined to visit her, and to take all my lady- 
friends to visit her. Now, your rank, your position in society, my dear, 
dear lad}' Capulet, make you allvpowerful. Once give your notice, your 
countenance and support, to this poor young lady, and her title to gene- 
ral respect and consideration are confirmed. Who would dare to breathe 
a word against the reputation of any one, whom lady Capulet chooses 
to visit ? All sinister whispers would die away of themselves, the very 
first time your coach is seen at her door. Let me beseech you, grant 
me the kindness to order it at once ; and let me take you thither. I 
came for the very purpose. I am dying to have you see her. I know 
the impression she will produce upon you will confirm mine. How I 
am running on ! But as I say, my heart always runs off with my 
head.. I own I am enthusiastic for the sweet Virginia ; and so will you 
be, when you see and hear her." 

Lady Capulet. though amused at her friend, the lady Anatolia's 
eagerness, consented to her wish ; and the two ladies set forth at pnce 
to the superb mansion, which the signora Coralba had hired for her re- 
sidence during her intended sojourn at Verona. 

" Does such a place as this look like the lodging an adventuress 
would choose?" said the lady Anatolia triumphantly, as the coach drove 
through the entrance to the court-yard. " Adventuresses seldom possess 
such wealth as this argues, I think ?" 

' : It proves the young lady rich, certainly, as far as the command of 
money goes ;" said lady Capulet quietly. 

" She will prove herself rich in all else;" answered lady Anatolia; 



428 juliet ; 

"in virtue, in discretion, in beauty, in accomplishment. Reserve your 
judgment until you have seen and heard her ; that is all I ask." 

The interview with Virginia di Coralba crowned the anticipations of 
her warm partizan. The lady Anatolia was more than satisfied with its 
effect. Lady Capulet, who had been prepared to allow somewhat for the 
exaggerated enthusiasm of her friend, could not resist the combination of 
beauty, soft manners, and attractive claims to her favor, presented in 
the person of the fair stranger. A face and person almost childish in 
their waxen complexion, and infantine slightness ; along sweep of flaxen 
ringlets ; eyes, in color, like tourquoise ; a mouth like a rose-bud ; a 
shrinking timidity of speech, a humility of voice, a shy glance, a hesitat- 
ing gesture, made the modesty of her appearance and demeanour amount 
nearly to bashfulness, in its pretty, submissive, deprecating appeal. 

Her two lady-visitors went away charmed with her ; and lady Anato- 
lia was scarce more loquacious in her favour now, than the generally 
somewhat taciturn lady Capulet. 

She seemed quite struck with the fair orphan, and took a lively 
interest in the difficulties of her position. She warmly espoused her 
cause, enlisting all the ladies of her acquaintance to show her countenance 
and encouragement, by their visits and invitations. She was rather 
surprised to find that her husband took no part in her enthusiasm on the 
subject. On the contrary, when she had offered to take him with her, 
the next time she should call upon signora Coralba, and introduce him, 
he had showed no disposition to go ; but had more than once afterwards 
avoided accompanying her thither. She thought this strange caprice in 
one who had always hitherto evinced curiosity and interest at the slightest 
mention of a pretty woman ; but she settled the question in her own 
mind, by deciding that he had conceived some prejudice against the 
young lady ;; for once, while she was descanting upon the loveliness of 
the fascinating Virginia, and persuading a lady of her acquaintance, to 
join her in negativing the sinister reports, vowing that she did not credit 
one of them, Capulet had dropped a few words, advising her not to be so 
vehement in her advocacy of a stranger, of whom, after all, he remarked, 
she knew nothing. 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 429 

His wife, indignant at anything that sounded like an insinuation 
against her charming Goralba. would not listen to a covert attack ; but 
urged him to speak out openly, if he had heard anything against her. 
But Capulet, as if repenting of having said even thus much, attempted to 
laugh it off. alleging that he meant nothing by his speech. 

" It is really too unjust, the way in which detraction assails the most 
helpless, and the most innocent ;" continued lady Capulet, turning to her 
acquaintance. " The merest whisper of slander suffices to sully the re- 
putation of a defenceless girl ; yet envy scruples not to breathe it against 
one whose only real crime in their eyes is, her undeniable wealth, beauty, 
and gentleness. Capulet began to fidget about the room ; and at length 
took his stand at an open window, a little apart from where the two ladies 
sat conversing. " To let you know one of her many excellencies, I will 
tell you, that I understand she has a brother,- — an unhappy, afflicted, 
deformed, deaf-and-dumb brother, whom she takes about with her from 
place to place, wherever she goes, that he may benefit by the change of 
scene and air." 

Capulet twitched the blossoms from a flowering myrtle that stood in 
the balcony, near to the open window, at which he was standing ; and, 
as his wife went on, he rubbed them into pellets, dropping them through 
his fingers, and strewing the ground beneath. 

« Virginia herself owned it to me," continued lady Capulet ; " and, 
with tears in her soft blue eyes, confided to me all about this deaf-and- 
dumb brother." 

The crushed blossoms were vigorously pelted against the edge of the 
balcony. 

" What, there is a mystery about him ?" enquired the lady acquaint- 
ance. 

" A terrible one ;" said lady Capulet. '• It seems that he is not only 
hideous in form, — crooked and deformed; but so loathly in countenance, — 
frightfully distorted, and covered with a leprous crust as it is, — that he 
perpetually wears a large dark mantle, enshrouding and enveloping him 
from head to foot, and a mask upon his face. Out of compassion to 
humanity, which would be involuntarily shocked and outraged by the 



430 juliet; 

sight of such ultra hiueousness, even while it pitied the object himself, 
the unhappy orphans hit upon this method of sparing the feelings of 
others, while they indulged their own wish to be together ; for Virgi- 
nia vows she will never forsake her miserable brother ; and he is, of 
course, devotedly grateful to her, and would follow her throughout the 
world." 

" A terrible mystery indeed — a fatal secret cause of sorrow, for one 
so lovely and so interesting as you describe her to be," said the lady. 
" Poor young thing !" 

i; Beautiful, patient, generous Virginia !" exclaimed lady Capulet. 
'• And this is the creature a malicious world would defame ! A self-de- 
nying martyr ! One who sacrifices all to sisterly affection. T would 
stake my reputation on the faith of hers ; and feel that I could almost 
hazard my life to defend her innocence.'" 

Capulet jerked the remainder of the pellets high up into the air, scat- 
tering them far and wide, as he abruptly quitted the window, and whisk- 
ed out of the room. 

The more lady Capulet saw of Virginia di Coralba, the more infatu- 
ated she became with her. The sentimental tone the young lady always 
used in speaking of her unfortunate brother, seemed to lady Capulet the 
acme of generous tenderness. 

In the intimate and frequent communion that now took place be- 
tween them. — no day passing without lady Capulet's spending a portion 
of it with the fair stranger, — she. of course, often saw this brother ; that 
is, as much of him as could be seen. He fully answered the description 
she had heard of him. He usually sat, huddled in his dark cloak, close- 
hooded, masked, mute, and apart, unable to take the least share in the 
conversation. Virginia would speak of him. in his presence, without the 
least reserve, as his deafness prevented his feelings being hurt by any al- 
lusions to his afflicted state. 

"Never, no never, will I give up hoping that time, and change, may 
restore my unhappy brother to himself and to me. I never will consent 
to cease cherishing the belief, that some blessed day, he may be cured of 
his fearful complication of infirmities, so that he shall be able to con- 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 431 

front his fellow-beings. — to take his place among humanity. Now, my 
own delicacy and his, urge this veiling of our afflictions from the public 
eye. But the moment may come — nay, shall come — when that blighted 
form — that disfigured face — those uninformed ears, and silent lips, shall 
be redeemed from the shroud, to which, living, they have been hitherto 
doomed." 

'• Preserve that pious hope, dear Virginia ;" said lady Capulet, in a 
tone of sympathy. " But." continued she, in a lower voice, " are you 
quite sure no sense of hearing lingers ? — are you certain no sound reach- 
es him 1 I fancied I saw an involuntary movement — a slight start — 
when you alluded to his calamity." 

" Not a syllable — not a breath, alas !" sighed Virginia, '•'• e'er makes its 
way to those sealed portals. I- am compelled to write down all I would 
say to him." 

She drew a small set of tablets, that lay upon the table, towards her 
as she spoke, and hastily wrote upon them, '-'• Give me your hand, dear 
brother !" 

She held the words before the masked face. 

A hand was protruded from the folds of the mantle ; and Virginia 
clasped it fondly, covering it with kisses. Then she held it for awhile 
in both hers, looking upon it with streaming eyes, and murmuring, 
" Dear, dear brother ! Endeared, by thy afflictions, beyond all brothers ! 
Dearer, than ever brother was to sister !' 

As lady Capulet threw a glance of curiosity towards this hand, to 
see whether it bore any evidence of the deformity which blighted his per- 
son, she was struck by a singular mark it bore. Immediately below the 
knuckles, in the centre of the back of the hand, was a deep empurpled 
scar, cut in the shape of a cross. It was precisely, in shape, hue, and 
position, similar to one which she had often remarked on the hand of sig- 
ner Vitruvio, her friend, lady Anatolia's husband : who had received the 
wound which was its origin, in a duel he had once fought. As her eyes 
fixed upon this remarkable sear, she perceived the hand struggle, as if 
to disengage itself from Virginia's hold. 

' ; Strange !" she could not help inwardly exclaiming. The impres- 



432 juliet ; 

sion haunted her. As she drove homeward, she could not help recurring 
to the circumstance, and musing upon it deeply. She had bidden her 
coachman take her a somewhat longer drive than usual, that she might 
have opportunity to ponder the matter. Suddenly she desired him to 
take her as speedily as possible, to the house of her friend Anatolia 

" Is the lady Anatolia at home ?" 

" Yes, madam." 

" Signor Vitruvio ?" 

" No, madam. My master has been abroad the whole morning." 

"'Tis no matter. I will see them this evening. Bid my coachman 
proceed the way I first told him." 

As she resumed her drive, the thought perpetually reverted. 

" Surely never were two marks so singular, yet so precisely alike ! On 
the left hand, too ! And then the consciousness apparent in the move- 
ment ! Strange !" 

That evening, when she met her friends, she took care to look par- 
ticularly at Vitruvio's left hand. She observed that he kept his glove 
on, for the most part ; but in partaking of some iced coffee that was 
served, he drew it off; and then she had an opportunity of scanning the 
scar minutely. The scrutiny but confirmed the wonderful identity in 
the appearance of the mark on the hand of her friend's husband, and on 
that which had been put forth from the dark cloak which enshrouded 
Virginia's deaf-and-dumb brother. 

Again and again, she repeated to herself : — " Strange ! Can it be 
possible ! Can I have been deceived in her? And poor Anatolia ! — 
So enthusiastic — so generously unmistrustful ! Can you be playing her 
false, sly signor Vitruvio ? Could your introduction of the Coralba to 
yourunsuspectingwife.be a mere husband's artifice — a man's trick upon 
woman's simplicity ? I shall see Virginia again to-morrow ; and it shall 
go hard, but I'll get another sight of her brother's left hand." 

But before lady Capulet paid her visit to the fair Coralba the next 
morning ; it so happened, that the lady Anatolia called, at an hour still 
earlier. 

The brother sat as usual, muffled, and apparently unnoting. 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 433 

" Is not your poor brother dull, sometimes, my dear creature ?" ask- 
ed Anatolia of Virginia. " How sadly he must lack amusement, cut off 
as he is from the usual resources of mankind, among their fellow-men." 

'• He generally contrives to find entertainment from watching the 
passers-by from that window, where he usually sits, you see :" answered 
she. " Besides, he and I, when we are alone, have this means of inter- 
changing our thoughts ;" and she took up the tablets. 

l< Well, to be sure writing is something — but talking is worth a mil- 
lion of jotting down one's passing fancies:',' said the lady Anatolia. 
c: Scarce any one's will bear that, I'm sure mine run on in such a stream 
— such a bubbling stream, — so airy, and so shallow, too, I fear. — that it 
would never do to turn them into the sobriety of ink." 

" Ah ! but the consolation of v conveying ideas to one who can get them 
through no other medium," sighed Virginia, as she wrote down : — :: We 
love each other, do we not, my brother, though we have no other means 
than this, of uttering our feelings ?" 

She held the lines before the masked visage ; and then a hand came 
from beneath the mantle, and wrote beneath : — " No brother could love 
— no brother hath the reason to love — his sister, as I love my Virginia." 
The eyes of the lady Anatolia happened to fall upon the hand which 
inscribed this sentence ; and she could hardly believe what they beheld, 
when she saw upon the middle finger, a very peculiar ring, which was ex- 
actly like one that her friend's husband, Capulet. constantly wore. She 
looked at it carefully ; and felt more and -more assured of the precise 
similarity. 

" Very extraordinary !" thought she, after she had taken leave, and 
was driving away from the house. ' ; Can we after all have been deceived • 
in this Virginia ! I know that my friend's husband is reputed a man 
of gallantry ; but surely, this would be too bold an intrigue even for his 
enterprise. Pshaw ! impossible ! How could it be ? I am dreaming ! 
My silly head is off at a tangent as usual, at the mere sight of a ring — 
a bauble !" 

As her carriage left the Coralba's door-way, lady Capulet's equipage, 
drove up. ' ; I have brought you some flowers, Virginia ;" she said, as 



434 Juliet ; 

she entered the saloon, where the brother and sister sat together. " 1 
fancied your brother would take pleasure in their beauty and perfume." 

" Like your kind heart to devise means of delight for one whose un- 
happy state leaves him so few ;" replied Virginia. Then she wrote on 
the tablets: — '-The amiable lady Capulet has brought hither flowers 
from her gaiden, for thy express behoof, my brother." 

She held up the tablets, and tendered the flowers. A hand was 
stretched forth to receive them. It was the left hand; and lady Ca|ou- 
let's eyes fastened upon it. But no scar was there. It was white and 
unblemished. 

She leaned back in her chair, bewildered, and uncertain what to think; 
while Virginia wrote another sentence : — " Will you not write your 
thanks, dear brother, to the gentle lady who hath had this kind thought 
for thee ?" 

But the tablets were hastily rejected by the left hand, — and with no 
answer written in return. 

Virginia made some farther effort to induce her brother's compli- 
ance ; but he seemed as if he either could not or would not understand 
her wish. Shortly after, lady Capulet arose, and took her leave. 

She had no sooner quitted the room, than Virginia di Coralba ex- 
claimed in a voice which vainly sought to preserve its usual honied 
accents of bland deference, and soft timidity : — " Why, what in Lucifer's 
name, could induce you to withhold compliance with my hint? How 
came you not to write when I bade you ?" 

'• Softly, fair Coralba !" said the gentleman in the mask. " This 
confounded ring would have betrayed me. She would infallibly have 
recognized it, and then we had both been lost, for she is " 

"Pshaw!" interrupted Virginia. " Why could you not pull off the 
ring, under your cloak ?" 

" It is tight for me ; I snatched, and plucked, and pulled at it, but 
in vain. It wouldn't come off, all I could do. Besides, if it had, she 
would have known my handwriting, for — ■ — " 

"So then, she would have seen characters that have often met her 
eye in the form of an amorous billet?" laughed Virginia scornfully. 
" She is one of your worship's old flames, is she?" 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 435 

" She is my wife !" replied the gentleman. " And I am a sorry vil- 
lain in my own eyes, to Lave wronged a generous unsuspicious nature, 
that shows disinterested kindness to a supposed orphan brother and sis- 
ter ill-used by nature and by the world. — for the sake of one who is an 
embodied falsehood j with the tongue of a virago in a mouth of meal ; 
her very name's a mockery. Virginia! Coralba ! Herself as hollow an 
unreality as her sham brother ! : Deformed,' quotha !" exclaimed he, 
flinging off the mantle: " Toul-visaged !' " chucking the mask on the 
table: '< < Deaf-and-dumb !' " 

" And so she is thy wife?" said Virginia, in a tone of mingled de- 
rision and triumph. " I knew I could not be mistaken ; I discerned 
thee for one of the married herd, or thou hadst ne'er been admitted of 
my train. A pretty fellow to rail at me as a falsehood, a deceit ! Pray 
what art thou? A sweet figure thou cut'st here, of truth and honor, — 
of fidelity to thy wife, of faith to me. Didst not palm thyself off a gay 
young bachelor, — a free man, — a devoted gallant ? And these are the 
fellows, — these husbands, these demure rascals, these hypocrite knaves, — 
who denounce a wife, for a word, a look given to another than to him 
who hath bought up, with church fees, the exclusive right and title to 
herself and all she possesses; while they reserve to themselves the 
privilege of indulging in amusement wherever it offers, and of rating their 
entertainers for lightness and falsehood, when they tire of them. But I 
weary of thee, man. Get thee gone ; let me see no more of thee." 

" I'll tell thee what, fair mistress, an' thou dost not " 

"Begone, I say !" interrupted she, with so unmistakeable a decision 
of tone and gesture, pointing to the door as she spoke, that Capulet 
thought fit to tarry no longer : but straightway walked out. 

His wife had meanwhile driven to her friend the lady Anatolia, and 
arranged with her, that they would go together on the morrow to the 
house of the Coralba, keep a close watch upon her and her muffled brother, 
during their visit, and compare notes afterwards of their observation ; 
since they mutually confessed they began to have their suspicious of the 
fair-seeming Virginia, and her mysterious relation. 

As lady Capulet was proceeding homewards, her coach was for a few 



' 436 juliet ; 

moments detained by some passing obstruction, from a knot of people, 
gathered to enjoy the humours of a puppet-show, exhibiting at the corner 
of a street. Looking out to see the cause of the halt, her eyes fell upon 
a face and figure, which, through all the change that years had wrougLt, 
she instantly recognized. They were those of Onofrio. The fierce 
black eyes were dulled and hollow; the mahogany face was of a sallower 
hue ; the jet beard that encircled his cheeks and throat was now grizzled ; 
and his form was bent, and shrunken. But there was no mistaking 
the hardened look, the bronze determination, that characterised the whole 
man. 

Lady Capulet shrank back. But he had seen her. In another second, 
he was at the coach-window ; his face horribly near to her own. as he 
rapidly whispered : — •' Be in your garden, — near the fountain, — at mid- 
night Come provided ; and fail not, as you hold sacred the memory of 
Leonilda !" 

The utterance of that name, which had so long been a mute terror to 
her thought, completed the overwhelming effect of Onofrio's sudden re- 
appearance, after she had suffered herself to indulge the hope of never 
again beholding him ; and lady Capulet sank half fainting upon the cush- 
ions of her coach. The next moment it moved forwards ; and the man 
was out of sight. 

The interview at night in the garden, — for she dared not withhold it, — 
was a repetition of those which had formerly taken place ; and the re- 
sult, money extorted from her dread of discovery. Onofrio's protracted 
absence was explained, by his owning that he had been condemned, for 
some minor offence in which he had been detected (his identity with the 
malefactor who had before escaped, being unknown to the local authori- 
ties who had passed sentence upon him). — to seven years' labour as a 
galley-slave. 

He was once more at large. — free to haunt her as before ; and lady 
Capulet felt her life again darkened. At any moment she was subject 
to the shame of these secret meetings with a ruffian ; or to the still more 
intolerable disgrace of his disclosures. 

Her wan countenance, and swollen eyes, spoke plainly next morning 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 437 

to her friend Anatolia, of a disturbed mind, and restless night. " Can 
poor Angelica have any suspicion of the part her faithless spouse has 
"been enacting in this farce, which the spotless Virginia and her afflicted 
brother have, I fear me, been playing off upon us Verona ladies ? I 
should have paid more heed to the rumours from Venice : at any rate 
have enquired farther into their source, before I so resolutely set myself 
to discredit them. But my foolish enthusiasm ! my runaway heart and 
head !" 

It was singular, that lady Capulet, who had formerly suffered such 
tortures of jealousy on groundless occasions, should now entertain no 
shadow of mistrust. The conviction of the injustice she had done Capu- 
let in the case of both Giacinta and Leonilda, together with the salutary 
teaching engendered of remorse, had greatly contributed to her present 
freedom from misgiving. But partly because few passions so effectually 
blind the judgment of its victims as jealousy, partly because men are 
naturally more guarded where there is an amour, than where they feel 
an honest liking, certain it is, that lady Capulet never for one instant 
glanced towards her husband, when her eyes were opened to the true 
character of the pseudo Virginia di Coralba. The two ladies found this 
artless young creature hanging over her brother, turning the leaves of a 
portfolio of drawings, for his entertainment. 

Lady Capulet said ; — " I have brought some more flowers for your 
brother, my dear, since he seemed pleased with those, the other day ;" 
and without waiting for the ceremony of the tablets, she held them at. 
once towards the muffled figure. 

A hand — a left hand — was promptly stretched forth to receive them, 

i: No scar !" thought lady Capulet. Aloud, she said : — " your brother 
is miraculously cured of his deafness ! I give you joy, Virginia." 

Virginia shook her head. 4; I fear his hearing is no better, madam. 
He must have seen the nosegay in your hand ; he has a keen sight for 
flowers ; he loves them so." She sighed with a pretty deploring air. 

" You are fond of flowers then, sir V wrote lady Anatolia on the 
tablets ; which she placed open before the masked man. A hand came 
forth, and wrote down reply : — " Beyond expression, — far beyond my 
poor powers of expression !" 



438 juliet ; 

" No ring !'' thought lady Anatolia. Then she added aloud : — " Vir- 
ginia, my dear, I have planned a charming scheme for the enjoyment of 
your brother ; and indeed, I trust we shall all find much diversion in it. 
I mean to have all my favorite friends of the party. It is. to go to a 
country-seat on the Adige, belonging to signor Vitruvio and myself, 
where there are flowers in profusion, for the delight of your poor brother, 
and where the rest of us will. I hope, find a few days' agreeable repose 
from the gaieties and bustle of Yerona. "What say you, my dear?" 

- You are only too good, sweet madam ;" replied Virginia di Coralba. 
" But alas ! I fear that my dear brother will be unable to " 

' ; Tut, tut !" interrupted lady Anatolia, rising to take leave ; " I will 
take no denial, my dear. So be prepared to give us your company to- 
morrow, when my friend lady Capulet and I will call for you in my coach. 
Addio ! A rivedersi !" 

No sooner had the two ladies left the room, than the gentleman in the 
cloak, sprang from his seat, threw back the hood, plucked olf the mask, 
and burst into a fit of merriment. 

The laughing features were neither those of the grave signor Vitru- 
vio. nor of the middle-aged Capulet. They were those of a young gal- 
lant, scarce arrived at manhood ; so light was the down on his lip, so 
sparkling and boylike the mirth in his roguish eyes, so thoughtless and 
careless his whole bearing. He seemed as though frolic, — the love of 
jest — the light spirits of youth, were his sole guide, his only rule of ac- 
tion. 

" And how wilt thou contrive now, fair plotter?" he said. " Thou 
canst not carry on the disguise for days together, beneath their very eyes 
— at least, I cannot; it hath well-nigh stifled me already. Ouf !" ex- 
claimed he, as he cast away the cloak. " Fairly caught in thine own 
springe, my dainty woodhen !" he continued. " Own thyself foiled, at 
length, by these quiet ladies. 'Faith, they more than suspect thee al- 
ready, I believe ; for didst thou see how they scanned thy deaf-and-dumb 
brother ? If their eyes had had the gift to. pierce the folds of my man- 
tle, the keenness of the glance which they fastened thereon would have 
riddled it through and through, like an arrow-shot." 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 439 

i: I will yet foil them, not they me !" exclaimed Virginia. " When 
those women come to-morrow, they shall find the bird, they thought to 
snare, flown. Till now, I have had no thought but vengeance : henceforth, 
I will have none save love. Share my flight, — you have no tie here, — 
go with me to some far-away place where we may live to each other, for- 
getful of aught that may have crossed us hitherto. I will no longer be 
known as Virginia di Coralba ; you shall adopt some other name than 
Mercutio " 

" Nay, few are the crosses I have either to look back to, or to turn 
my back upon ;•" returned the youth. And, as thou say'st, few ties. But 
one or two I have, which I would fain not break. I h?ve a generous 
friend and kinsman in the Prince : two favorite companions in a couple 
of lads ycleped Romeo and Benvolio ; who, though sober-sided youths, 
yet have a something about them, that would make me loath to leave 
them. But for thyself, fair Coralba ; tell me, 'beseech thee, what ven- 
geance thou talkedst of but now ; tell me something of thy story; tell 
me what malicious devil it is that looks out of thine eye, when thou 
speak'st the words • those women.' " 

" It is because I glory in tricking and befooling them to their very 
faces. It has been the aim of my life to entrap as many of their pre- 
cious mates from them as may be. For it was one of these prudes, these 
wives, these wedlock purities, these church-bargains, these honest women, 
forsooth, who defrauded me of the only man's heart I ever cared to pos 
sess. In the hour of my agony, when I discovered the wrong she had 
done me, I vowed to revenge myself upon her whole married sisterhood ; 
and I have already succeeded in immolating a hecatomb of deluded wives 
upon the altar of my hatred to that one. By the device of disguising 
all my lovers, in turn, as an afflicted brother, too hideous to be looked 
upon, I have managed to evade prying eyes, and to preserve tolerably in- 
tact that reputation which was essential to my success with such respec- 
table personages as I had in view,— to my plans of inveigling demure 
husbands, and of hoodwinking prudent wives." 

" How cam'st thou to encourage a miserable bachelor fellow like my- 
self, pretty mistress ?" said her companion ; '-' I have no wife whom thou 



440 juliet ; 

maj'st add to thy dupes and victims. What mad'st thou care to enlist 
a poor single devil 'mongst thy train of bewitched husbands?" 

" Thy favor hath a singular resemblance to his, of whom I was be- 
guiled. It was thy likeness to my youthful first love, that attracted me 
to thee. Just such a gay dauntless spirit sat sparkling in his eyes, as 
shines from thine. The others I have allured, — I have sought to win ; 
but thou hast won me. Vow that thou wilt be constant to me, and I 
swear to give up all future thought of conquest for revenge-sake, or for 
aught else ; and will devote myself wholly and solely to thee." 

" Grramercy for thy kind intention, fair Coralba ;" said the youth, 
laughing ; ■' but knowing, as I ao, that I can boast no iota of steadiness 
in all my madcap composition, I were a pre-perjured villain to vow 
constancy. I cannot, nor I will not feign. Take it how thou wilt. 
While the fancy lasts. I am thine. When it ceases, I am mine, — mine 
own man again. ' 

" Heartless trifler !" exclaimed the lady. 

' ; Not so, madam ; I trifle not ; I speak the truth. But to palates 
used to the high-flavoured draught, flattery, plain well-water truth seems 
insipid offence. I crave pardon for commending it to those pretty lips 
So, a sugar touch of them to sweeten it, and to take the taste out of both 
our mouths !" 

" I have done with casual caresses forever, either to give or to receive ;" 
said she vehemently. " Give me yours, once for all ; or not at all !" 

" Then ' not at all ' for me, fair dame ;" said he, taking up his plumed 
cap. - :i Once for all' is too solemn a pledge for a roving blade who 
loves his liberty beyond aught else. Liberty of tongue, liberty of look, 
liberty of foot, liberty of love, liberty of thought, word, and deed for 
me ! Whereupon, I kiss your hands, fair lady." 

" Not even my hand, fair sir ;" she said, drawing it angrily away 
from him, as he attempted to snatch it to his lips. 

' ; As you will, pretty tyrant. I am not for persevering against a 
lady's wish. Her favor must be mine by her own good grace, or I seek 
not to secure it ; I shall be admitted to salute even her hand, by her 
own sweet granting, or I touch it not. I have no courage 'gainst disin- 



'THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 441 

clination. I cannot strive for reluctant liking. She must be a willing 
woman, who is a winning woman to me. I submit to your decree. We 
are henceforth strangers, — enemies, if so you ordain it. Save you, fair 
foe !' : 

He bowed and withdrew. 

The lady Anatolia had no sooner stepped, with lady Capulet, into 
her coach, than she said, in her usual parenthetical style : — '•'• I have a 
scheme to unmask this creature, (who, I fear, is nothing more nor less 
than an adventuress, after all, my dear friend.) and her brother also. 
I have my shrewd suspicions that he is not what he seems, any more 
than she, with her languishing looks, and her soft speech. I shall ask 
both our husbands to accompany us, without telling them whom they are 
to meet ; and then we can have their unbiassed opinions, and observa- 
tion, to confirm our own. How say you?" 

" I think your plan is good, if you can bring it to bear ;" answered 
lady Capulet ; mentally adding, " Poor Anatolia ! How unsuspecting 
she is ! I wonder whether signor Vitruvio will indeed be there." 

And as this passed through her mind, her friend was thinking : — 
" Poor Angelica ! How guileless she is ! What if her wretch should 
send an excuse, and not come ?" 

But the experiment was never tried : for, on the following day, Vir- 
ginia di Coralba had disappeared from Verona. 

Some months elapsed unmarked by any new event, when one even- 
ing as lady Capulet was returning from vespers, through the by-street 
that lay between the old church and her own gardens, a paper was has- 
tily thrust into her hand by some person, who, directly afterwards, dart- 
ed down a turning near, and was lost to sight. She could not distin- 
guish anything of the figure, in the deepening twilight, and in the tran- 
sient glance she obtained ; she only felt certain that it was not Onofrio 
himself, though she could scarce doubt but that it was some emissary 
from him, when she opened the paper, and read as follows : — ' ; As you 
are a christian woman, come to a dying wretch, whose soul cannot release 
itself from fleshly shackles, until it has told you that which has bur- 
dened it for years." 



442 juliet; 

The paper was a foul blotted scrawl : well-nigh illegible. It contain- 
ed, besides these words, the direction to a miserable lodging-house, in 
one of the lowest quarters of Yerona. He was dying, then ! That 
was the idea paramount in her thought. He was dying. — and she should 
now at length be securely freed from the one bane of her existence. To 
witness his very death-agony would loose its terrors for her imagination, 
in the feeling that thus she possessed assurance he could never again 
cross her path. The horror of beholding him expire before her, would be 
merged in the exultation of knowing she need never more dread him, 
alive, — a living witness against her. It was such thoughts as these that 
nerved her to the task of setting forth alone, to find the place indicated 
in the paper. She muffled herself in a plain dark dress and veil ; the 
absence of her husband at a large party, and her daughter's early hour 
of retiring to rest, affording her the opportunity of leaving home unobser- 
ved under favor of nightfall. She was not long in reaching the street she 
sought : for she walked fast, both to avoid notice, and to keep pace with 
the hurry of her mind. It seemed strange to her, a lady accustomed 
to all the attendance and luxuries of her rank, to be walking alone by 
night : h^re, among the obscure haunts of poverty. Poverty in its de« 
cent struggles, and its despairing recklessness ; its cares, its wretched- 
ness, its squalor ; its laborious industry, its idleness and vice : in all its 
various phases, poverty here met her view at every step. There were 
gioups sitting in doorways, breathing the night air cooled by darkness ; 
it made its way down the close, narrow street, as well as it could, be- 
ween the tall blocks of houses ; and in the absence of the sun's rays, it 
seemed to come refreshingly. Lady Capulet looked up at the strip of 
deep blue sky, thick-set with stars, that appeared through the narrow 
crevices formed by the confined street, with a sense of relief at the calm 
elevation of that sight, contrasted with the pent turmoil below, the scene 
around her. There were blinking lights within the ground-floor rooms : 
seen through dingy curtains partly drawn back from doorways which 
they had served to screen all day. The glimpses into these interiors 
presented different scenes in succession. Xow a laughing party seated 
round a supper-table, noisy, but good-humoured, making coarse fare pleas- 



THE WHITE I>OVE OF VERONA 443 

ant by sociality ; now a solitary woman watching her husband's return, 
rocking her cradle with her foot, while her hands were employed with a 
distaff and sr indie ; next, a set of men drinking wine out of flasks and 
skins, while a crowding together of eager heads, and a clamour of voices 
proclaimed that they were deep in the game of mora ; anon, a shop-full 
of polenta-buyers ; farther on. a solitary barber, lounging in his door- 
way beneath the shadow of his pole, his dangling brass bason, and his 
roof-tree : next to him, a fruit-woman chaffering with a customer ; and 
next an assemblage of. earnest talkers. At the house which was the ob- 
ject of her search, lady Capulet found the lower room fitted up as a sort 
of shop, but traffic seemed not the object of its present occupiers, who 
were numerous, and engaged in an animated discussion, the gist of which 
was utterly incomprehensible to any but themselves, from the jargon in 
which it was carried on. the screaming key in which all the voices were 
pitched, and from the circumstance of their all being at full talk togeth- 
er. The lady did not stop, either to ask questions, or to state her er- 
rand. The apartment, and the story it occupied in the house, had been 
all minutely set down ; so she went straight up the crazy staircase, until 
she came to the door of the room in question. 

It was ajar, — either left open for the admission of air, or from the 
carelessness of the last person who Lad gone out. Lady Capulet tapped 
softly. 

" Avanti !" responded a feeble voice. It was a woman's ; and lady 
Capulet thought she must have made some mistake in the room. But 
she entered. The room was in darkness, save what feeble glimmer 
made its way through the rents in the tattered window-curtain ; not 
undrawn, though the heat and glare 6*f day had passed. Enough of the 
place was visible, to show that it was of the meanest description. Barely 
tables aud chairs were there ; a miserable bedstead of the most sordid 
description occupied one corner, and on this, lay stretched the person 
who had bid lady Capulet enter. The woman made a faint attempt to 
raise herself upon her arm ; but the effort was beyond her strength, and 
she sank back, with a hollow cough, and a moan of pain. 

" I fear I have disturbed you ; this is not the room I was directed to, — 



444 juliet; 

you are not the person I seek, — the person who summoned me;" said 
lady Capulet ; " I fear I am mistaken." 

" Your voice tells me you are right ;" gasped the woman. " Though 
so many years have passed since I heard it — I remember it." She 
paused ; checked by a fit of coughing that seemed to tear her asunder ; 
then resumed. " Draw back the curtain, madam ; though the noonday 
sun itself would make it no clearer to me, that you are lady Capulet. 
Your voice sufiices. But I would have you cast what light the sky affords, 
upon my face, that you mny see if you can behold in it aught of one you 
saw many times, years ago." 

Lady Capulet, wondering, — for the woman's voice had yielded no 
clue to her remembrance, — drew aside the curtain. The stars shed suffi- 
cient light to enable her to distinguish an emaciated form, haggard looks, 
and a pallid face ; in each cheek a hectic spot, and the muscles of the 
mouth drawn back with the lips, in that fatal drag, peculiar to deep de- 
cline. But in nothing of all this, could she discern a single trace of any 
one whom she remembered to have seen. 

The woman perceived how totally she was unrecognized. She sighed ; 
and through her almost incessant cough, which pierced lady Capulet's 
heart with its ill-omened sound, said : — " 'Tis as I thought ; care, disap- 
pointment, remorse, even more than years, have blotted out all that once 
made my lord, your husband, call Petronilla the prettiest lass in Man- 
tua." 

" Petronilla !" exclaimed lady Capulet. 

" Even she ;" replied the dying woman. " She whom you once knew 
a brisk, cheerful girl, without a thought of care, without a dream of ill ; 
now the broken, guilty, dying creature you see." 

She strove to suppress her racking cough, as she went on : — " But it 
is because I am guilty, and know how insupportable the sense of guilt 
is, — it is because I am dying, and would fain have the solace of doing 
one good deed ere I die, that I have entreated you hither. Listen ; when 
you first saw me, madam, I was in the service of the young lady Leonilda. 
You shrink from that name ; but bear the present pain for the sake of 
after comfort. In an unhappy hour, one festa-day, I met with Onofrio. 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 445 

His flattery, his handsome person, the persevering court he paid to me, 
won my girlish heart. I fell madly in love with him ; and once he had 
discovered this, I was wholly in his power. From w 7 hat you know of 
Onofrio, madam, I need not tell you, that with him, to know his power, 
is to use it." 

For some moments the harassing cough overmastered her : when she 
had succeeded in stifling it, Petronilla continued : — '• When obliged to 
fly for his life, after stabbing the young rake who insulted me, Onofrio, 
in my anguish at parting, obtained my ready promise, that if ever he 
escaped alive, and returned to claim me, I would become his wife. His 
love for me was, I believe, the one sincere and master passion of his life. 
Had it not been for my belief in that, I should have died — I should have 
destroyed myself long since. He did return. It was after his first en- 
countering you, madam. It happened at that time that I had conceived 
a strong resentment against my young mistress, from some imagined 
affront that she had put upon me. I fancied that she treated me with 
unwarrantable caprice, — injustice, — I know not what, now ; but then it 
appeared to me unpardonable, unbearable. In this mood he found me ; 
and in this mood, he had little difficulty in persuading me, not only to 
leave her service and to marry him : but to revenge the ill-treatment, I 
believed myself to have sustained, by carrying off her jewels, which we 
might convert into money sufficient for us to live upon in some distant 
place. ' He also got me to promise that I would admit him into the house, 
on the night we had fixed for our flight, after the family had retired to 
rest. He did not explain what was his purpose in this ; but I afterwards 
learned his fatal intent." 

Lady Capulet's eyes were fixed upon Petronilla's lips, as though she 
would have forestalled every word they uttered, ere well formed. She 
scarce breathed, in the intensity of her eagerness to gather each syllable 
that came gasping forth. 

" I sat that night, counting the hours as they crept on towards the 
appointed time, in the little dressing-room adjoining the one in which 
my young lady slept ;" continued Petronilla. " I strove to cherish my 
wrath, to stimulate my resentment against her, by recalling all the cir- 



446 juliet ; 

cumstances of the conduct by which I had thought myself aggrieved. I 
sought to strengthen myself in the belief that I was justified in leaving 
her, in defrauding her, and in escaping from dependance on her tyranny, 
to independence with the man I loved. But I could not entirely succeed 
in stifling something within, which told me I was about to commit that 
which I should repent my whole life long having done. It drew towards 
midnight ; and that was the time fixed by Onofrio. To rouse myself 
from the misgivings that were fast creeping over me, I resolved to sit 
thinking there no longer, but to fetch the jewel-case, and set it ready for 
carrying away. It always stood in my young lady's room ; on a small 
porphyry table near her bedside. I stole into the chamber on tip-toe. 
I listened, to make sure, by her breathing, that she slept. Not a sound, — 
not a breath, reached my ear. I approached nearer. On her bed she 
lay. The stillness was beyond that of sleep. There was no mistaking 
that blank silence, that marble immobility. Appalled, I drew back. 
The next instant. I desperately laid my hand upon her ; not the slightest 
motion heaved the bosom. I caught at her arm ; it was cold, and fell 
heavily from my grasp. I should have screamed aloud in my horror, 
but that its very extremity paralysed me ; and a moment after, I heard 
Onofrio's signal I hurried out to him ; and attempted wildly to draw 
him from the spot. He was struck by the disorder of my manner. In 
incoherent words I told him what had happened. ' No time to take you 
into the house now.' I said, ' let us fly at once — whither you will — I can- 
not look upon that pale dead face again.' ' Dost mean to say. she is 
certainly dead, my girl V he exclaimed ; ' art sure of it V ' But too 
sure !' I replied. l Leave wringing of thy hands ;' said he ; ' fate hath 
brought about that, which otherwise must have fallen to my share. For- 
tune hath done me one good turn, in requital of the many scurvy tricks 
she hath played me, and made me play. This night's chance hath spared 
me a villainy. I am quite as well content to be without the burden of 
that young creature's death, — mocking wench though she was, — upon mj 
soul.' " 

' ; All-merciful Heaven, I thank thee for removing its burden from 
mine !" murmured lady Capulet. 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 447 

" I understood not the full meaning of Onofrio's words, then ;" 
Petronilla went on ; " but afterwards, when he found that I had, in the 
shock of discovering Leonilda's death, left the jewel-case behind me, he 
told me how destitute of resources he was ; how impossible it was to 
him to obtain a livelihood by any honest means, since his character was 
blasted beyond redemption ; and he ended by confiding to me without 
reserve his whole position. I then learned to what a man I had linked 
my fate ; but he gave me so many proofs of the strong attachment he 
had for me. and I loved him with so passionate a fondness, that even 
that discovery failed to make me regret my having become his. He 
made no secret to me of what had passed between yourself and him. 
madam ; and he told me he should go immediately to Verona, that he 
might by being the first to inform you of Leonilda's death, endeavour to 
obtain a reward for his welcome tidings, which should afford us means 
of subsistence for a time." 

" 1 believed that he claimed that reward as her murderer ;" shud- 
dered lady Capulet. 

" To his surprise, he found this ;" returned Petronilla. " He found 
that you did not know her death had occurred naturally, but imagined 
it to have been the work of his hand. A mistake so favourable to his 
views, was not to be corrected. He allowed you to remain in your 
error, and continued, from time to time, to make it the means of ex- 
torting money from your fears. When he was seized and condemned 
to the galleys, I accompanied him. I say nothing of those weary years. 
They passed. We wandered back to Mantua, old in disgrace and 
misery. Some short time since, he brought me to this neighbourhood, 
that he might be near, to work afresh upon your fears, madam. He 
again tried, and succeeded. With the sum he obtained on that occa- 
sion, he set out for Mantua, on some scheme of building a fortune with 
a young fellow, who had worked with him, chained to the same oar, and 
who had been freed from his term of condemnation at the same period 
as himself. Before Onofrio left me, I used all my efforts to persuade 
him, as I had many times done before, to confess all to you, madam ; to 
relieve your conscience of the load that burdened it. and to throw him- 



448 juliet ; 

self upon your generosity for the future. He would not listen to me; 
but, laughing at me for a faint-hearted wench, left me, bidding me keep 
up my spirits, and prepare to receive him with full health and smiles 
when he should return, as he speedily hoped to do, a rich man." 

Petronilla paused ; checked in her speech by a violent convulsion of 
coughing ; then resumed : — ' ; I had been some time declining. On his 
leaving me, I rapidly grew worse ; and within this day or two, I have 
felt that I shall never recover. Since the moment I became convinced 
of this, I have been haunted with a desire that you should know the 
truth concerning Leonilda's death. Within view of the grave, I have 
learned to see many things clearly revealed to me, which formerly 
struck me only passingly, indistinctly. 1 have learned to see my own 
follies and weaknesses in their full measure of evil consequence ; I 
have learned to feel compassion for other erring souls ; I have come to 
desire nothing more earnestly, as a hope of expiation for my own mis- 
deeds, than to carry comfort to at least one wounded conscience, and to 
relieve it from a sense of deeper stain than in truth attaches to it. Let 
my soul in its parting hour have the one solace, madam, of knowing it 
hath whispered peace to yours. Let my love for Onofrio have this one 
virtuous deed to hallow it : by making him, through me, do you this 
poor justice." 

" May he not, when he returns, resent this generous step on your 
part, my poor girl ?" said lady Capulet. " I would not that your cou- 
rageous thought for me, should endanger your own safety or peace." 

" My safety and peace, both, will by that time be beyond all human 
power to affect ;" said the dying woman. " Neither Onofrio's praise, 
nor Onofrio's blame, will then avail to work their old influence on Pe- 
tronilla. I know not whether he will be pleased or displeased at the 
step I have taken ; but it will then be past recall, and he is not one to 
spend much lament upon things done and gone. I shall leave him a 
few words of farewell ; I shall tell him what I have done, and I shall 
tell him that it was an ease to my heart in my dying hour ; and I think 
I know enough of Onofrio's love, to assure me that will suffice with 
him. He will forgive his Petronilla all in that moment. He will then 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 449 

remember only what we have been to each other, through our struggles, 
our disgraces, our mutual discomforts and comfort." 

She paused again ; and a look of fond thought dwelt for a few mo- 
ments upon her countenance. Then she went on : — " He will know, 
madam, that it is now in vain to make any future attempt upon your 
dread of discovery. He is henceforth in your power, not you in his ; 
but I trust to your honor, that you will never use it against him, in 
return for the voluntary reparation I have made you this night. I do 
not ask jou to pledge me your word, lady; I know that you will never 
let mv avowal bring harm upon him I love." She fixed her eyes as 
she spoke, upon lady Capulet ; who replied to their earnest appeal, by 
volunteering her promise that Onofrio should be safe from her betrayal, 
so long as he left her unmolested. 

Petronilla endeavoured to express her thanks, but exhausted by her 
long recital, she was unable to do more than look her gratitude ; and 
lady Capulet, after making all the arrangements in her power for the, 
comfort of the dying woman, bade her farewell, blessing her for the 
ineffable consolation she had bestowed. 

Passionate temperaments such as - lady Capulet's, are strangely 
affected by sudden chances of joy or sorrow, by consolatiou or anxiety. 
Lady Capulet had sustained many violent emotions with comparative 
calm, on former occasions. She had succeeded in stifling and conceal- 
ing her jealous misery ; she had hidden from all eyes her tumult of so- 
licitude, her anguish of remorse ; she had borne with firmness all this, 
and had even maintained her health of body untouched by these strug- 
gles of mind. But now, all at once, the tide of unaccustomed inward 
satisfaction, the sense of freedom, of release from guilty fears and self- 
reproach, acted upon her with overwhelming force, and she fell ill from 
pure reaction of feeling. 

On the morrow she was in a high fever ; and for some days her 
physicians declared her life was in danger. It was then that the affec- 
tion with which her husband really regarded her, showed forth in all its 
strength of demonstration. That love, of which she had entertained so 
many torturing doubts, was now unequivocally declared ; that love. 



450 juliet ; 

which, while she was well and apparently happy, was content to show 
itself only in a good-natured easy kindness, and indulgence. — to exist 
in und-isplayful liking, passive approval, and silent content, — now be- 
trayed its full force of passionate attachment, in the moment of alarm 
at the thought of losing her. But she lay unconscious of his very pre- 
sence, neither hearing his lamentations, nor beholding his irrepressible 
tears ; she lay utterly insensible to all that would have excited such a 
new torrent of grateful emotion could she have witnessed it, knowing 
its cause. 

The physicians, fearful of the agitating effects which it would have 
on their patient, should she suddenly become aware of her husband's 
presence, and perceive his uncontrollable grief, had prevailed upon Ca- 
pulet to retire to his own room, while the sleep into which his wife had 
at length subsided, was allowed to have its full chance for composing 
and restoring her. They owned to him that this was the crisis of her 
disorder ; from which she would, in all probability, awake either to re- 
newed life, or sink into eternal rest. 

Capulet suffered them to lead him away ; and Juliet, who had been 
sedulous in watching her mother's sick-bed, was induced at the same 
time to go with her nurse to her own chamber and endeavour to take 
some repose. 

From her deep slumber the lady at length awoke. The room was 
hushed. The very attendant who was stationed there to watch, had 
fallen into a doze. Lady Capulet raised herself in her bed, and looked 
around. She strove to recall the cause of her being thus ; she found 
she must have been ill — ill for some time — dangerously ill, though now 
she felt wonderfully revived, — strong. — and able to think clearly. She 
remembered the circumstances which had preceded her illness ; she 
thought upon the important revelation of the dying Petronilla. which 
had been providentially permitted to lighten her soul of its load of guilt ; 
she thought of the resolution it had inspired within herself to make avowal 
of all to her husband. She felt that she owed the candour of confession 
in return for the boon which confession had been to her. She recollected 
how nearly death had stepped in to prevent this intended act of expia- 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 451 

tion : and she was seized with irresistible longing to lose no moment now 
in fulfilling it, She got up, threw on a dressing-gown, her excited mood 
enduing her with strange power to support herself. She took her way 
straight to her husband's room, which lay in the same corridor. She 
pushed open the door, which moved noiselessly ; and beheld him seated 
with his back towards her, his face buried in his hands, weeping in ah 
that despairful abandonment, so terrible to witness in man. On the 
table beside him stood an open casket; and before him lay a miniature. 
A sudden faintness overpowered lady Capulet, and she leaned against 
the doorway. She well remembered having once seen her husband 
place a miniature in this casket ; and but too well recalled the many 
jealous pangs it had cost her subsequently, when she had chanced to 
note the casket, and to speculate on what woman's picture it contained, 
so carefully enshrined there by him. There was a revulsion of all the ten- 
der thoughts which had possessed her on first seeing him buried in 
grief; she had believed that those tears might be caused by her danger, 
that it was the fear of losing her which so moved him. But now the 
terrible idea suggested itself — could it be an old memory revived? 
Could it be regret, that just as he was about to be free, to be released 
from wedlock thraldom, the original of the miniature no longer lived, 
to share and bless his liberty? Could it be Giacinta? Leonilda ? 
Desperately she resolved to know the truth. She staggered silently to 
his side: and saw — a portrait of herself. 

She dropped at his feet, clasping his knees, her head resting on 
them, in a transport of happy gratitude. Capulet, in amazement, 
raised her to his arms, pouring forth a torrent of questions. 

She replied by a full confession of the history of her heart ; from 
its first girlish idolatry, its misgivings, its waning hopes, its fears, its 
jealous rage, its weaknesses, its guilty purposes. Her husband, in turn, 
told her, in his own half-vain, half good-hearted way. how that he had 
never seriously loved but her ; how he might have had his youthful fol- 
lies before marriage ; how he had become weaned from them by the 
surpassing loveliness of the beautiful young creature whom her father's 
friendship had bestowed upon him for a wife ; and smilingly showed 



452 juliet; 

her the miniature of herself, which, in the time of his early married 
adoration, he had had executed by a young artist, who painted it from 
memory; how her reserve had constrained him to a less demonstrative 
affection, than he might otherwise have shown : how her coldness of 
manner had chilled him to a corresponding appearance of indifference- 
very little accordant with the passionate warmth of admiration with 
which she really inspired him ; but that fancying it best pleased her, 
had accpieseed in the calm and friendly regard of conduct which gra- 
dually established itself between them. He told her how his attach- 
ment for her had kept him always a constant husband ; and that, not- 
withstanding the license of Italian manners, he had never felt tempted 
to the slightest infidelity, save in the instance of his passing infatuation 
for Virginia di Coralba. He said he told her of this, that there might 
not now exist the shadow of reserve between them; and then he took 
from the casket certain relics of by-gone bachelor flirtations — scented 
billets, fragments of faded nosegays — an odd ring, or locket, and such 
trifling knacks, offering to destroy them before her face, to show his wife 
how valueless they had become in his eyes. 

Lady Capulet had much too generous a spirit, had had too bitter an ex- 
perience of true jealousy, and had moreover received far too deep a les- 
son of self-discipline, to permit her entertaining a moment's uneasiness 
upon such grounds as these. She would not hear of her husband's 
proposal ; but playfully told him she would have him preserve the me- 
mentos of his youthful gallantries, as trophies of her own conquest 
and triumph. 

As a proof how entirely cured she was of her former jealous mean- 
nesses, and how true was the reformation her own character had under- 
gone, her reflections upon the subject of the adventuress, Virginia, di 
Coralba, were full of candour, and forbearance. She felt the admoni- 
tion that was to be drawn from her own blindness on that occasion ; 
she felt that this single instance of her husband's forgetting what was 
due to herself and him, was mainly owing to her own apparent caprice 
and inexplicable reserve of conduct, — to her own coldness and unsocia- 
ble abstraction, while constantly employed in brooding over her own 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 453 

suspicions, and unhallowed resentments : she felt that by such moods 
women naturally estrange their husbands from themselves, and teach 
them to look for more agreeable companionship elsewhere : in short, 
she exchanged the intemperance, the irrationality of jealousy, for the 
peace and joy of confiding love ; and lady Capulet was from that time 
a happy wife and woman. Shortly after this, she had the pleasure of 
receiving a letter from the Florentine prince. It was dated Palermo ; 
and ran thus : — 
•' Beloved friend, 

■• So long as my rebellious heart would not admit itself to 
the extinction of those hopes you had enjoined it to abandon, and in- 
dulge those new ones you had taught it to form as its true base of hap- 
piness. I would not give you the pain of hearing from me. But now I 
have learned how truly you foretold that my nature was capable of re- 
ceiving its best joy from a pure passion, and that mutuality of love 
which could not exist where I ventured to aspire before. I no longer 
refrain from writing to you ; but call upon you to rejoice with me. as I 
know your noble heart will, in the fact of my having attained this 
knowledge. A certain fair Sicilian lady, daughter to the viceroy here. 
taught me first to think it possible you might be right. She is now 
hanging over my shoulder, as I write, bidding me tell you how earn- 
estly she joins in my gratitude towards that noble woman, who treated 
an inexperienced heart in its rashness but sincerity of passion, with 
tender consideration, with gentleness, with kindly inducement to better 
self-knowledge. She bids me thank and bless the generous woman, who 
subdued her own feelings, who sacrificed her own scruples of delicacy, 
that she might, by a confession of her own unreturned passion, effec- 
tually extinguish any lurking hope which might mislead, and prevent 
the substitution and growth of wiser love in the breast of him who had 
cherished a presumptuous one. My young wife glories with me. in 
attributing our present mutual happiness to the high-souled and unself- 
ish ingenuousness of your conduct on that occasion. Had you colcllv 
contented yourself with rebuking my presumptuous passion, in lieu of 
confiding to me the cause of its utter hopelessness, and leading me to 



454 JULIET, 

believe that it might be hereafter replaced by a hopeful love for a 
legitimate object, I might never have learned to look for that happier 
fate which I now enjoy with my Sicilian bride. Let me tell you that 
she hath the same glorious dark eyes — the same majesty with sweetness 
of aspect — that same witchery of blended dignity and gentleness of 
mien that first entranced me, and bound me thrall to a certain beauty 
of Verona. Had not my fair Sicilian reminded me a thousand ways 
of her who was my first love, of her who must ever live enthroned in 
my heart as the noblest of women, she had never succeeded in impress- 
ing anew that heart which you had enjoined to love again. It hath 
been my happy fate to win the esteem of the two most generous 
women upon earth ; for my wife is never better pleased than when I 
tell her of those beauties most resembling Angelica's. Dear friend, 
think of us ever, as two happy beings, gladly owing our happiness to 
you ; and, if it may be, send us assurance you are not unhappy your- 
self, that our joy may be perfect." 

It may be believed with what sincere and eager delight lady Capulet 
responded to this letter, by the tidings that she now as fully enjoyed 
the treasure of her husband's undoubted and undivided love, as she or 
they could desire. She concluded her letter with the words : — My dear 
lord is sitting beside me ; his arm is about me, as I write ; he will but 
take the pen from me to assure ycu, in his name as well as mine, how 
entirely we are, dear friends, 

Your loving friends, 

Angelica. 
Capulet." 

And now it was, that lady Capulet had leisure of mind to devote in 
thought and companionship, to her young daughter. Hitherto, she had 
been so absorbed in her own reflections, that she had given but sparing 
and intermittent attention to Juliet. There had been between them but 
little of the sympathy and intimate communion usually subsisting between 
a mother and daughter. With parents severally so engrossed in their 
own pursuits,— the mother in her secret cares, — the father in his social 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 455 

pleasures, — it came that the young Juliet had been thrown almost wholly 
on her own resources for the development of her ideas. She had been 
brought up in the style of seclusion and retirement usual for a young 
Italian lad v. Her intercourse had been strictly limited to the members 
of her own family, and their household. From earliest childhood she 
had been in the habit of seeing her father at his breakfast-hour, before 
he went out to his rounds of visiting : and had invariably been brought 
to bid him good night, when he happened to be in the house at her own 
early bed-time. He had good-naturedly frolicked with her. when some 
party did not call him away, and took pride and joy in marking her 
growth, her beauty and grace of person. Her mother had had her in 
the room with her while she embroidered, or sat at home : but for the 
most part, the little creature had played about at her feet, while lady 
Capulet silently pursued her occupation, lost in thought : and as the 
child grew into the young girl, the hours she spent in her mother's room, 
had passed scarcely less silently : for the lively questions that naturally 
sprang to her lips, learned to restrain themselves from utterance, when. 
through a course of years, they met with but monosyllables, or short 
sentences spoken abstractedly, in reply. Gradually, her communion 
with both father and mother became almost entirely restricted to the 
wonted periodical salutes, exchanged between Italia,n parent and child, 
when she kissed, first their cheeks, and then their hands, on bidding 
them good-morning. — after meal-time.— and before retiring to rest. 

She was fond of her cousin Tybalt : but his active pursuits, and pug- 
nacious disposition, took him much abroad. — to the fencing-school, to 
the sports of his fellow-youths, to the taking part in their quarrels, and 
frequently to the fomenting of their differences. — so that he made but 
little of a companion to her, in her girlish tastes, and her stay-at-home 
resources. 

Juliet's most constant associate was the nurse ; who had been her 
foster-mother in babyhood, her attendant in childhood, and still main- 
tained her situation about her person, from the circumstances which had 
induced lord and lady Capulet to give her a home in their household, 
and from her own strong attachment to her young lady. Once, when 



456 juliet; 

there bad been a talk of engaging a waiting-maid, the nurse was highly 
affronted : exclaiming : — " Ought not I to know how to dress thee, better 

than any tire-woman of them all? I, who bore thee in my arms? 

T, who shared my own Susan's milk with thee? I, who weaned thee, 
when my good man — rest his merry soul ! — stood by? Well, there's no 
standing 'gainst a tottering wall, when an earthquake bids it jog. — and 
us be jogging ! But e'en in falling stones, is Heaven's mercy! It took 
both the merry heart, and the little one too good for this earth, to its 
own rest, — rest their souls !" 

The person whom Juliet held in chiefest reverence as her friend and 
counsellor, was her spiritual director, her confessor, a certain holy man, 
called friar Lawrence, a brother of the Franciscan order. In his quiet 
cell, kneeling at his feet, pouring out her innocent soul in humility and 
contrition for offences, fancied rather than actual, this young girl gained 
teaching from his wisdom, help and strength from his virtue, steadfast- 
ness and courage from his moral admonition. With him she learned to 
perceive and partially to analyse the feelings, the impulses, the aspirations 
within her. With him she attained something of self-consciousness ; 
something of that interior understanding, that auto-comprehension which, 
teaches us our own individuality', as sentient, thinking beings. Very 
little of this was hers ; but what little she had, was gained through the 
gentle teachings of friar Lawrence. She felt this, without perhaps being 
aware of it, — far less, reasoning on it ; but what she felt, sufficed to give 
her a sense of reliance, of sustaining confidence in his counsel and friend- 
ship ; and made her find some of her happiest hours, those she 'spent in 
tbe good friar's cell. 

Juliet was by no means an intellectual girl either from nature, or 
from training. She inherited a susceptible disposition from her father, — ■ 
a man of gallantry and pleasure. From her mother, — a woman of strong 
though suppressed feeling, ail the more concentrated, for her lofty and 
reserved exterior, — she inherited a sensitive, passionate temperament. 
Her parents' several native qualifications and habits, unfitted them for 
the development of their young daughter's mind ; and it has rarely been 
the usage in Italy to bestow much cultivation on a young maiden's men- 
tal acquirements, from external sources, — from masters. 



THE WHITE DOA~E OF VERONA- 457 

Juliet's refinement sprang from herself. She had a natural affinity 
with the beautiful in all things. She had an innate perception of the 
beautiful and the voluptuous in both Nature and Art. It was through this 
intense appreciation of beauty, that her refinement existed. Her heart 
informed her mind. It might be said, that her feelings, rather than 
her understanding, thought. Profoundly impressionable. — her senses 
and instincts were more at work than any mental process. Her soul 
was elevated by its native purity, and affinity with beauty, rather than 
by any inspiration or effort of intellect. Her religion was one of sen- 
timent rather than of conviction. — of impulse, not reason. She knelt 
at the good friar's feet with all the implicit reverence, the unquestioning 
faith, the passive credence, of a child : she let him judge for her. rather 
than used judgment of her own : and took for granted, unscrutinized, 
all that he said, or made her subscribe to. 

It was this passionate sense of beauty in all existing things. — 
whether of Heaven's creation, or of man's ingenuity, that supplied Ju- 
liet with food for her ideality of feeling : and entirely precluded any 
sense of dullness or weariness in the retired and monotonous life which 
had been hers. She felt no want of society, while she had the glorious 
face of Nature to look upon in loving companionship : she scarcely 
missed human associates, while she revelled in contemplation of sky 
and earth ; shadow, and sunshine : morning light, and starry evenings : 
the broad expanse of her father's garden-grounds, the partial glimpse of 
the impetuous Aclige. the distant purple of the mountains, sole boun- 
dary to a scene affording wide scope to the imagination. Her father's 
indulgence had given her a range of apartments, in one wing of the 
palace, that commanded a magnificent view from one of the large bal- 
conies that opened from her own peculiar chamber. This balcony was 
a favorite resort of Juliet's. It was here that she filled her soul with 
happy contemplation. It was here that. — no reader. — she fed her 
thoughts with things, rather than with studies, and gained ideas from 
objects, instead of from books. She learned wondrous secrets from 
tree, and shrub, and flower : she heaped up strange lore from noontide 
rays, and the soft moonbeams : she stored up innumerable fancies from 



458 juliet ; 

the ever-dancing waters of the fountain, from the growth of blossoms, 
from the ripening of fruit, from watching the nights, the careerings, 
the hoverings, of birds and their nestlings ; from listening to the 
lark's upsoaring rush of song, and to the luxuriant melody of the 
nightingale. 

In her favorite room hung several pictures, that furnished her with 
Art-beauty of id.eas. The only child and heiress of a wealthy noble- 
man, it may be believed that her suite of rooms lacked no adornment 
that money could command. There were massive silken hangings; 
tasteful furniture ; the walls were hung with paintings ; and in the 
niches stood groups of statuary. Two pictures had* an especial charm 
for her. The first showed Mary in the garden, approaching Him as a 
simple gardener, who was her Master and her Lord. It represented 
the moment, when His voice, uttering her name, revealed to her the 
sacred Presence in which she stood ; there was expressed in her figure 
all the awe, the heart-struck reverence of the sudden recognition, while 
in His, was all of good and. benign impersonated. It was a present- 
ment of human imperfection with perfect love ; of the divine spirit of 
Hope and Beatitude. The other was a painting of a holy legend, show- 
ing an aged man, — a saint grown old in self-denial and in the exercise 
of virtue, — led on by an angel. The emaciated countenance of the 
poor, worn-out piece of mortality, was raised in meek hope, Heaven- 
ward, while the angel, in whose bright face shone immortal youth and 
happiness, pointed towards the sky, and cast a look of compassion and 
superhuman intelligence of comfort upon the suffering saint, now so 
soon to be released from his earthly probation. These two pictures 
formed an unfailing resource to Juliet, when in a humour for reflection. 
In other moods of feeling, there was a picture she delighted to look 
upon ; allowing her imagination to take free range amid the exquisite 
fancies it suggested. It was a woodland scene ; an embowered thicket 
deep within the recesses of a forest. On the grass lay the queen of 
beauty and of love, — Yenus herself; beside her was the young Adonis ; 
unheeded stood his courser impatiently chafing, and champing the bit, 
eager to be away with his master to the chase ; all as unheeded stood 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 459 

bis leashed and coupled hounds, and his boar-spear flung aside. It 
might have been a defect in the painter, failing to tell the story aright : 
but there was no reluctance visible in the face of Adonis : it was 
turned towards that of his enamoured mistress : the eyes of both were 
mutually engaged; and the lovers seemed all in all to each other, with- 
in the green seclusion of that forest-dell. 

Among the sculptured marbles, were some that forcibly appealed to 
the sense of beauty and grace, which was Juliet's predominant charac- 
teristic. There was one of Galatea and her nymphs : their rounded 
limbs emerging from the fresh and crested waves : while the face of the 
goddess looked radiantly towards the land, where she knew awaited her 
coming her shepherd-love. Acis. There was one that showed the pair 
of fate-linked lovers, borne onward upon the hell-wind : sad Paolo and 
Francesca. And one there was. in relievo, where Aurora flew, scatter- 
ing flowers, before the ramping steeds of Apollo, hastening to unfold 
the golden gates of the east. Amid such objects. Juliet cherished her 
love of the beautiful. Unaided, her own -inclination for whatever was 
fit and lovely, indued her with discernment, discrimination, and appre- 
ciative admiration : unenlightened by a single rule or theory, she ga- 
thered new perceptions, and acquired a confirmed taste. Thus, her na- 
tive tendency to whatsoever contained elements of harmony and beau- 
ty, engendered its own power of culture, and refinement. 

It came, as a matter of necessity, from such a process of self-form- 
ing, that Juliet rarely gave expression to her thoughts. They were 
rather vague musings, delicious reveries, insubstantial day-dreams, in- 
dulged secretly and alone, in the retirement of her own chamber, than 
uttered to others, brought forward, or discussed. They were a hoarded 
treasure of silent communings with her own spirit : not spoken, or idly 
shown. 

Indeed, as has been seen, she had few to whom she could have con- 
fided them. One other person there was. besides those already cited. 
— her parents, her cousin Tybalt, the good friar, and her nurse, with 
whom she held intercourse : and that one was. Rosaline, a niece of Ca- 
pulet's. But she. though a young a very beautiful girl, was still so 



460 juliet ; 

much older than Juliet, that there was less of freedom and intimacy 
between them than might have been supposed to exist with two such 
near relations. Besides, they had scarcely a point of sympathy in 
common ; their dispositions, tastes, opinions, feelings, were all singularly 
dissimilar. Juliet was warm and enthusiastic ; Rosaline was cold and 
sedate. Juliet was impassioned in her language, when she ventured to 
give utterance to the emotions that stirred within her ; Rosaline was 
grave and measured in speech, and rarely gave words to anything but 
arguments, and ascertained facts.' The one spoke from feeling, as if 
feeling were too vehement to be suppressed ; the other never seemed 
to give vent to impulse, but to assert from settled conviction. The one 
alluded to impressions, and glanced at imperfect conceptions ; the other 
stated opinions, and announced the result of mature deliberations. 
While Juliet's eyes surveyed with ecstacy some effect jof light in the 
landscape, and her lips quivered with the fervour of her silent emotion : 
Rosaline's head would be bent over the rosary she held in her hand, 
and her eyes would be fixed on the beads, which her lips would tell 
over in a pious pomp of undertone. While Juliet feasted her imagina- 
tion with some harmonious outline, or felicitous blending of tints, Ro- 
saline would descant aloud upon the question whether a man rightly 
fulfilled his destiny in chipping out morsels of marble, or declaim 
scornfully against the preposterous notion of a human being dedicating 
his energies to dabbing patches of colour on to canvass. 

Rosaline was so serenely didactic, so solemnly oracular, and evinced 
such placid faith in her own unerring judgment, that she imposed 
greatly on those around her ; she passed among her own friends for 
a prodigy ; a singularly superior young lady. Oapulet stood secretly 
in much awe of her ; in her presence his usual glib volubility, and 
garrulous ease subsided into a sort of snubbed silence ; he seemed to 
have a fidgetty dread of committing himself before her. He would whis- 
per behind his hand to some one near her, as a sort of deprecatory 
votive offering to her superiority : — " My dear sir, she is quite a phi- 
losopher, I can assure you ; — quite one of the illuminati in petticoats ; 
— a very very superior young woman is my fair niece Rosaline, let 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 461 

me tell you. sir ! " Rosaline had announced, in her own sublime style 
of lofty humility, that it was her intention to forswear love, to abjure 
vvedlock, to vow herself to celibacy ; in order that she might the bet- 
ter dedicate her whole soul to her high pursuits. — contemplation of 
mysteries, reflection on profundities, and meditation on all matters ab- 
struse and recondite. 

Tybalt, one day, in his off-hand style, astounded his uncle by rap- 
ping out the remark that " it would be no great loss to the bachelor 
world if she did vow to die unmarried ; for that no one would have such 
an affected young pedant ! " 

Capulet looked seared : but, casting a furtive glance in the direction 
of his fair niece, and seeing that she was engaged in silencing somebody 
with an oration upon her own views touching a mooted theory, he in- 
dulged in a little stealthy titter : which, however, was nipped in the bud 
by her turning her head in his direction ; whereupon he rose, fidgeted 
about, took up a humorous print that lay on a table near, as if that had 
been the cause of his laugh ; and at last, ambled out of the room. 

Shortly after, some visitors who had been there, took leave : Tybalt 
flung away, to join the young county Paris in a walk ; and lady Capulet 
being called out to attend to some household superintendence, the two 
young ladies were left alone. 

Juliet ventured timidly to ask her cousin Rosaline, what had made 
her take so violent a resolution against love and marriage. 

" Not ' violent :' — but decided ;" replied she. u I do nothing vio- 
lently ; but I have come to a decision. — a calm decision against them, 
that nothing can induce me to alter. It is not so much aversion to mat- 
rimony that sways me : I have a respect for the holy state, abstract- 
edly :" she continued ; " but I have no wish to enter it myself. I should 
not choose the duties of wife and mother. — duties which I should con- 
sider myself called upon to fulfil most scrupulously and conscientiously, 
were I to accept the title, — I should not choose, I say, these duties to 
interfere with those higher tasks to which I have devoted my energies." 

'- Can there be higher ?" said the soft voice of Juliet. It was so 
woft, that perhaps her cousin did not hear the remark : at any rate, Ros- 
aline did not answer it j but went on as if there had been no interruption 



462 juliet ; 

"After all, any commonplace, dull-souled, mindless woman can per- 
form the mechanical drudgery in question ; but not only should I object 
to the onerous and incessant calls upon time and thought which the 
conjugal and maternal offices involve ;" she said ; " but I seriously re- 
pugn the notion of wasting, in the idle process of courting, precious 
moments that might be so far more advantageously bestowed, both moral- 
ly and mentally. Do not think, my dear cousin, that I mention the 
circumstance I am about to tell you. as a vain-glorious boast, or from 
any motive of display ; for if I know myself, I am above such foolish 
vauntings ; but there is a young lord who persecutes me with his atten- 
tions, and will not be said nay ; and his vexatious suit would teach me 
the trouble, and noyanee, and frivolous waste of time that courtship is, 
even had I not known it before from the numerous wooers that this poor 
beauty hath attracted around me, to my infinite perplexity, and to the 
bringing about of the vow I have taken. The youth I speak of, — I will 
not tell you his name, Juliet, for his sake, poor fellow ! — is well enough, 
— nay, very well ; he is really handsome, and heir to one of the noblest 
houses in Verona ; but so importunately, so abominably in love, that 
really I should have no time I could call my own, were I to admit his 
attentions. If he be so exacting, and tormenting, now that he is hope- 
less, what would he be, you know, my dear, were he a favored lover ?" 

Juliet seemed to be lost in thought. Seeing she did not answer ; 
after a moment's pause, Rosaline continued : — " He really is pitiably in 
love, this poor young fellow, and yet I cannot find in my heart to pity 
him. - No ; I am convinced that I have done wisely, in coming to the 
determination to live to myself, to my own exalted views of what is the 
prerogative of a human soul — free, uncontrolled, unlimited speculation 
of mind : unshackled by the petty concerns of this earth." 

She held forth for some time longer in this strain : but seeing Juliet 
still wrapt in her own thoughts, soon after took leave. Juliet was in- 
deed pondering upon many things that suggested themselves to her 
thought, during this late — not conversation, but harangue. It struck 
her, among other things, that Rosaline seemed to take pride in the fact 
of this youth's love, not for any delight it afforded her, but for the glory 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 463 

of having it to reject. As she had looked into her cousin's beautiful 
face, and heard her descant so coolly upon this passionate lover, she mar- 
velled ; she could not but wonder to hear one so lovely proclaim herself 
so unloving. She wondered that Rosaline could resist the charm of an 
attachment so devoted; she could scarcely comprehend the remaining 
unmoved by such fervour of affection as the one described. She felt a 
strange kind of pity and sympathy for this unknown lover, so hopelessly 
enamoured. She now, for the first time, asked herself what her own 
feelings would be, were she to discover that she had inspired such a pas- 
sion. The idea startled her ; and held her for some time pausing, with 
her cheek leaning upon her hand, her head drooping, and her eyes fixed 
upon the ground. She was still quite a girl in years, though on the 
verge of Southern early womanhood ; her heart spoke powerfully in its 
young and ardent feelings; it was pure, fresh, unhackneyed; all the 
more potent in its impulses, for its very purity. She sat there, deeply 
musing, motionless as though she had been a statue. Her reverie held 
her entranced, though without a definite object. She seemed awaiting, — 
like the clay Pandora, the touch of Prometheus, — the vital fire of Love, 
which was to make her, from a dreaming child into a sentient, passionate 
woman. 

She was aroused from her abstracted mood, by the return of Tybalt. 
He' began with his usual vehemence, to tell her of some offence he had 
newly taken, upon some imaginary ground, against some members of the 
rival family of the Montagues. He endeavoured to explain the nature 
of the affront, and to make her understand how he naturally felt himself 
wronged, insulted, aggrieved. But although Juliet, for the sake of her 
cousin, — to whom she was as fondly attached as if he had been her bro- 
ther, — had always tried to take an interest in these quarrels of his, yet 
she could never rightly comprehend the nature of the feuds and jealous- 
ies between the rival houses. She sometimes persuaded herself that 
she shared the rancour, the party feeling that animated all her kindred 
against the other faction ; but in reality, she understood little, and cared 
even less, about the rivalry that existed between them. She (jailed the 
Montagues, enemies, because all of her house and name called them so ; 



464 juliet ; 

but she had not one spark of genuine hatred. She had never even seen 
any of the family ; for the retired life she had led, had afforded no 
opportunity for meeting them. 

She had more than once heard of public contentions, of affrays in 
the open street, that had taken place between parties of the several 
honses ; but she had not entered into the merits of these contests, save 
inasmuch, as she concluded that the Montagues were of course in the 
wrong, and the Capulets of course in the right. She now only made 
out that Tybalt was enraged against young Romeo, the son of lord 
Montague, for assuming the right of walking in a certain grove of 
sycamore that lay to the west of the city, with an air as if he claimed 
the sole occupancy of the place ; and that her cousin was highly in- 
dignant, for some unstated cause, against young Benvolio, whom he 
called " a conceited pragmatist.' 

He went on to mutter : — " The fellow holds himself to be best 
fencer in Verona ; when, as all the world knows, and as I hope to prove, 
one day, — but enough." He started up, bit his lip ; then burst out 
again, with some invective against Mercutio. 

" There is something about that fellow that makes my blood boil 
but to look upon his face. It hath a laughing, careless, insolence of con- 
tempt in it, that sends my fingers tingling to my sword-hilt, to let a lit- 
tle of its malapert ruddiness forth. There's a twinkle in his eye, that 
tells of a sleeve-smiling, even whilst he lifts his cap with most of studi- 
ous courtesy." His cousin asked some slight question concerning the 
lord Montague's son. 

" Hang him !" was the reply. " Sweet youth, and virtuous gentle- 
man as he is reputed by the wiseacres of our city, I hope to see him 
hanged some day, or throttled somehow. 1 shall never feel at rest till 
the whole tribe of Montagues are got rid of, — cast out from amongst us, 
— fairly banished from Verona." 

Juliet smiled at his testy humour ; and to divert him from it, told 
him that her father had spoken of a masked ball which he intended 
giving on the occasion of his wedding-day anniversary ; having always 
marked it by a festival of some kind. 



THE WHITE DOVE OF VERONA. 465 

Tybalt said something in reply, about letting his friend Paris know, 
that he might have his mask and domino in readiness ; and added, with 
a meaning look, which Juliet could not then interpret, that, he believed 
his friend, the county, intended having a private interview with his 
uncle Capulet before the ball. 

The result of this interview was communicated to her afterwards. 
The evening appointed for the entertainment had arrived ; and just as 
Juliet was about to enter the ball-room, she thought she heard her 
mother's voice, in another apartment, enquiring for her. Then the 
nurse, who was with lady Capulet, came forth to summon her to her 
mother's presence. Juliet hastened towards her with the words : — 

" Hoiv 7101V, who calls V 



And now to tell the sum of Juliet's life, her love, her death, the 
Poet's u strength shall help afford. Y: 



PASSAGES U THE PLAYS 

(As Illustrative Notes to Vol. II.') 
IN RELATION TO 

FACTS, NAMES, AND SENTIMENTS, 

WITH WHICH IT WAS REQUISITE THE TALE SHOULD ACCORD. 



TALE VI. 



Page 4, Foot-racing is an ancient Viennese custom, on the first of May. 

line 1. 

Page 50, Her brother Claudio says of her : — 

line 31. ***** " She hath prosperous art 

When she will play with reason and discourse, t 
And well she can persuade." — Measure for Measure, Act i., s. 3. 

Page 51, Duke. " "What is that Barnardine, who is to be executed in the after- 

line 26. noon? 

Provost. A Bohemian born; but here nursed up and bred: one that 
is a prisoner nine years old." — Ibid., Act iv., s, 2. 

Page 54, Duke. " Unfit to five, or die: 0, gravel heart!" — Ibid., Act iv., s. 3. 

line 22. 

Page 55, See her vehement language in reply to her brother's sophistical plead- 

line 30. ing : — 

" Sweet sister, let me five : 
What sin you do to save a brother's life, 
Nature dispenses with the deed so far, 
That it becomes a virtue." — Ibid., Act hi., s. 1. 

Page 60, " Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the 

line 3. great soldier, who miscarried at sea ? 

Isab. I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name. 

Duke. Her should this Angelo have married ; was affianced to her 
by oath, and the nuptial appointed ; between which time of the contract, 
and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea, 
having in that perish'd vessel the dowry of his sister." 

Ibid., Act iii., s. 1. 



ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 467 

Page 67, Shakespeare, in his large charity and wisdom, has given us this one 

line 28. redeeming particular in the odious character in question. His profound 

knowledge of humanity, as well as profound sympathy with it, has not 
suffered him to give us a single instance of unredeemed wickedness ; 
and he has accordingly put a few words into Mrs. Overdone's mouth, 
which relieve our entire abhorrence. When she is being carried to 
prison, we find that she owes her arraignment to the heartless, despica- 
ble Lucio. She adds : — " His child is a year and a quarter old, come 
Philip and Jacob : 1 have kept it myself ; and see how he goes about to 
abuse me."- — Measure for Measure, Act iii., s. 2. 

Page 69, " Here in the prison, father, 

line 7 There died this morning of a cruel fever 

One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, 
A man of Claudio's years ; his beard, and head, 
Just of his colour." — Ibid., Act iv\, s. 4. 

Page 70, For the ground-work* of the Duke's character, see the short scene 

line 14. with friar Thomas, eaily in the play ; from which we learn his habits, 

and '• how he hath ever lov'd the life removed." — Ibid., Act i., s. 4. 

Page 71, In the second scene of the play, we find that Lucio and the 'two 

line 9. gentlemen,' are Claudio's companions. 

Page 76, Lucio. " Is she your cousin ? 

line 27. Isab. Adoptedly ; as school-maids change their names, 

By vain though apt affection." — Ibid., Act i., s. 5. 

Page 87, * * * * * * " She is fast my wife, 

line 32. Save that we do the denunciation lack 

Of outward order : this we came not to, 
Only for propagation of a dower 
Remaining in the coffer of her friends ; 
Prom whom we thought it meet to hide our love, 
Till time made them for us." — Ibid., Act i., s. 3. 



TALE TIL 

Page 96, ' Bollitura ' is a kind of thin drink, or decoction, for sick people 

line 17. 

Page 98, " Signor Baptista may remember me, 

line 21. Kear twenty years ago, in Genoa." — -Taming of the Shrew, Act iv., s. 4. 

Page 106, We are told that "Saint Macarius happened one day inadvertently 

line 27. to kill a gnat that was biting him in his cell ; reflecting that he had 

lost the opportunity of suffering that mortification, he hastened from 
his cell to the marshes of Scete, which abound with great flies, whose 
stings pierce even wild boars. There he continued six months, exposed 
to those ravaging insects ; and to such a degree was his whole body 



468 - ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 

disfigured by them, with sores and swellings, that when he returned, he 
was only known by his voice." Of St. Simeon Stylites we learn, that 
'• he erected a pillar 6 cubits high, and on it he dwelt four years ; on 
another, 22 cubits Irgh, ten years ; and on another, 40 cubits high, built 
for him by the people, he spent the last twenty years of his life." 

Pao-e 108, There is a singular inconsistency in the feelings of the Italian people 

line 19. towards friars. They reverence their holy calling ; but it is reckoned 

unlucky, — or, as the Scotch would call it, ' uncanny,' — to meet a friar 
in the streets. They make a particular sign towards him, stealthily, 
with the fore and middle-finger, called " jettatura,' which is supposed to 
avert ill-consequences, from the evil-eye,' or other ominous encounter. 

Page 119, ' Pignoli ' are pine kernels ; a kind of nut much in favor with Italian 

line 12. boyhood. 

Page 119, 'Miscetta' is Northern Italian for 'puss.' 

line 25. 

Page 1 20, ' Cedrata ' is a drink made from citron ; ' Limonata ' from lemons ; 

line 8. and ' Semata ' from lemon seeds. 

Page 149, ' Battuto ' is made by laying a stratum of cement, strewn thickly over 

line 22. with marble broken into small pieces beaten hard with iron flats, and 

polished into a beautiful, smooth, mosaic-looking floor. 

Page 182, "When Bianca finally jilts him for Lucentio, Hortensio says : — 

line 32. " I will be married to a wealthy widovj 

Ere three days pass ; which hath as long lov'd me, 
As I have lov'd this proud disdainful haggard." 

Taming of the Shrew, Act iv., s. 2. 



TALE VIH. 

Page 190, Those who remember Goethe's uncandid remarks upon Ophelia's 

line 1. songs, in his Wilhelm Meister, with the prurient deductions he draws 

from them in estimating her character, will see the gist of Botilda's 
fleer. 

Page 205, In one of her ravings (Hamlet, Act iv., s. 5.), Ophelia exclaims : — 

line 20. " O, how the wheel becomes it ! It is the false steward, that stole his 

master's daughter !" The commentators differ about the significance 
of the ' wheel ' alluded to ; some believing it to be the spinning-wheel 
of the girl whose song Ophelia has just quoted ; others affirming it to 
mean " the burthen of the song," rota being the ancient musical term 
in Latin for this. In the tale, it has been assumed that the ' wheel,' was 
the instrument of torture, upon which the false steward was racked, in 
becoming punishment fur his crimes. 



ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 469 

Page 217. Another of Ophelia's wandering sentences, in the same scene, is* — 

line 30. " They say, the owl was a baker's daughter." 

Page 227, See the colloquy with Reynaldo, at the commencement of the second 

line 1. act, for this peculiarity of Polonius's. Some of these short scenes, omit- 

ted in stage representation, afford subtlest instances of the Poet's mastery 
in the development of character and manner. 

Page 228, The stratagems of sending Ophelia to Hamlet, and of placing himself. 

line 23. the king, and the queen, where they may witness the interview unseen, 

with the one of hiding behind the arras to overhear what passes between 
the prince and his mother in her closet, are both devised by Polonius. 

Page 231, * * * * " we here despatch 

line 23. You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimahd, 

For bearers of this greeting to old Norway ;" — Hamlet, Act i., s. 2. 

Page 248, The reader will remember Hamlet's banter of Osric's affected style of 

line 28. speech and pronunciation, in the fifth Act. The word 'impawned' is 

spelt ' imponed,' in the folio edition. " Why is this imponed, as you 
call it ?" 

Page 263, Laertes. " My dread lord, 

line 10. Your leave and favour to return to France ; 

From whence, though willingly, I came to Denmark, 

To show my duty in your coronation ; 

Yet now, I must confess, that duty done, 

My thoughts and wishes bend again towards France, 

And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon." — Ibid., Act i., s. 2. 



" . TALE IX. 

Page 262. For Audrey's obsequious swain, William, see the scene at the com- 

line 17 mencement of the fifth Act, in the play of As you like it. 

Page 277, The duke says to Orlando : — 

line 19. * * * "the residue of your fortune, 

Go to my cave and tell me." — As you like it, Act h\, s. 7. 

Page 270, Gel. * * * " know'st thou not, the duke 

line 7. Hath banish'd me his daughter ? 

JRos. That he hath not, 

Cel. No ? hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the love 
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one : 
Shall we be sunder'd ? Shall we part, sweet girl ? 
No : let my father seek another heir. 
Therefore devise with me, how we may fly, 
Whither to go, and what to bear with us : 



470 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 

And do not seek to take your change upon you, 

To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out ; 

For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, 

Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee." — Ibid., Act i., s. S. 

Page 284, The classical colouring given to the diction of both Rosalind and 

line 26. Celia, by the poet, is striking. It is in exquisite keeping with the tone 

of the drama ; and forms a tasteful and natural characteristic of these 
two charming heroines. Instances might be multiplied, to a remarka- 
ble extent, of the mythological allusions that occur in their speeches. 
To cite one of the first that occurs, — where Celia asks her cousin what 
she shall call her in her man's disguise, Rosalind replies : — 

" I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page, 
And therefore look you call me Ganymede." 

As you like it, Act i., s. 8. 

Page 286, We hear of Rosalind and Celia in the first scene, "never two ladies 

line 12. loved as they do;" and afterwards; "their loves are dearer than the 

natural bond of sisters." — Ibid,, Act i., s. 2. 

Page 289, Eos. "But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal 
line 16. The clownish fool out of your father's court? 

"Would he not be a comfort to our travel? 

Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me , 
Leave me alone to woo him."- — Ibid,, Act i^s. 3. 

Page 290, The duke addresses Amiens thus :—" good cousin, sing." 
line 21. Ibid,, Act ii., s. 7. 

Page 290, Duke Frederick says to Orlando, youngest son of Sir Roland de Bois : — 
line 28. " The world esteem'd thy father honourable, 

But I did find him still mine enemy." 

And Rosalind says :— 

" My father lov'd Sir Rowland as his soul, 

And all the world was of my father's mind." — Ibid., Act i., s. 2. 

Page 298, " There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news ; that is, the old 

line 5. duke is banished by his younger brother, the new duke ; and three or 

four loving lords have put then. selves into voluntary exile with him, 

whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke ; therefore he gives 

them good leave to wander."- — Ibid., Act i., s. 1. 

Page 301, Le Beau says to Orlando, when he announces him to Duke Frederick's 

line 28. displeasure against him : — 

* * * * " Sir, fare you well ! 

Hereafter in a better world than this, 

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you." — Ibid, Act i., e. 2. 



ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 471 

Page 319, That Celia is the shorter of the two lady-cousius, Shakespeare has 

line 12. noted in more than one passage of the play; and Rosalind herself 

says : — 

" Because that I am more than common tall." — -Ibid., Act i., s. 3. 

Page 323, " Merelles, or as it was formerly called in England, nine men's morris 

line 8. and also rive-penny morris, is a game of some antiquity. Cotgrave 

describes it as a boyish game, and says it was played here commonly 
with stones, but in France with pawns, or men made on purpose, and 
they were termed merelles ; hence the pastime itself received that de- 
nomination." — Strutt's Sports and Pastimes. 

TALE X. 

Page 355, " Even or odd, of all days in the year, 

line 1. Come Lammas-Eve at night, shall she be fourteen." 

Romeo and Juliet, Act i., s. 3 

Page 359, ' Polenta ' is a boiled mash ; sometimes made of chesnut-flour, but 

line 8. mostly of maize. ' Su di sopra ' is a common Italian idiom for up* 

stairs. 

Page 360. "We learn lady Capulet's Christian name, from her fussy lord's words, 

line 8. where he is pottering about, giving orders for hastening the wedding- 

feast. Among other injunctions, he says :— 

" Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica ; 
Spare not for cost." — Ibid., Act iv., s. 4. 

Page 367, From several passages in the play we trace that Capulet is an el- 

line 8. derly man. That his wife must be considerably his junior, we find 

from what she says to her daughter, just after we have learned that 
Juliet is scarcely fourteen : — 
* * * * * " by my count, 
I was your mother, much upon these years 
That you are a maid." — Ibid., Act L, s. 4, 

Page 371, At the period when the Veronese date the events of Romeo and 

line 1. Juliet's history, the Scaligers ruled over Verona; and Shakespeare 

has given the prince the name of Escalus. 

Page 370, Capulet's early gallantries may be inferred from his gossiping talk 

line 29. with a kinsman at the commencement of the masquerade scene ; and 

afterwards, from those few words between him and lady Capulet,— 

which also furnish hints for her jealousy, as wrought out in the tale :— 

Cap. #**'■*•" What ! I have watch'd ere now 

All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. 

La. Can. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time ; 

But I will watch you from such watching now. 

Cap. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood !" 

Ibid, Act iv , s. 4. 



472 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 

Page 378, La Cap. "Tybalt, my cousin ! my brother's child!" 

line 15. Ibid., Act iii., s. 1. 

Page 380, A custom that obtains in Italy to this rery day. 

line 22. 

Page 387. See the nurse's speech of reminiscence, in the third scene of the play 

line 1. 

Page 389, "We have Tybalts's fencing-school proficiency, together with his fiery 

line 24. pride of spirit, hit off in Mercutio's humorous description: — " The very 

butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist ; a gentleman of the very 

house, — of the first and second cause : Ah, the immortal passado ! the 

punto reverso !" 

Page 392, They, to whom lady Capulet's conduct may appear over-coloured in 

line 9. the tale, are referred to the passage in the play, where she betrays her 

vindictive Italian nature by the deliberate proposal of despatching the 
" villain, Romeo," who has killed her nephew Tybalt : — 
" We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not : 
Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua, — 
Where that same banish' d runagate doth live, — 
That shall bestow on him so sure a draught, 
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company. 
*,.''■*.-•••■*"■'*•''■#■'#.*'* 

Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man." 

Romeo and Juliet, Act hi., s. 5. 

Page 394, 'Prender chiesa' is a common idiom'for taking sanctuary, 

last line. 

Page 412, For a description of ' pazienzi,' see Tale VII., p. 137. 

line 28. 

Page 419, " Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, 

line 9. By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, 

Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets ;" — Ibid., Act i., s. 1. 

Page 419, Into the mouth of Capulet himself is put this testimony to the fail 

line 17. reputation of Romeo,— heir of the i*ival house : — 

"He bears him like a portly gentleman; 
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him, 
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth." — Ibid., Act i., s. to. 

Page 419, Romeo speaks thus of Mercutio: — 

line 27. "This gentleman, the prince's near ally, 

My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt 
In my behalf." 

And afterwards, Benvolio, addressing the prince, says : — 

" There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, 

That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio." — Ibid., Act iii., s. 1. 



ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 473 

Page 431. Among the written list of Capulet's friends, invited to his entertain- 

line 29. ment, occurs : — " the lady widow of Vitravia? — Ibid., Act i., s. 2. 

Page 458, Juliet's observant delight in Xature's beauties, may be inferred from 

line 4. one line alone that she utters : — 

" It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 

That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear : 

Niglitly she sings on yon pomegranate tree" — Ibid^ Act iii., s. 5. 

Page 459, In the list before alluded to, of Capulet's invited guests, her name 

line 33. thus appears: — My fair niece, Rosaline." Her identity with Romeo's 

first love is to be traced from Benvolio's saying to him, immediately 

after it is read aloud : — 

" At this same ancient feast of Capulet's 
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou solov'st." 

The hints for her character are taken from what we hear of her from 
Romeo himself, from friar Laurence, and from Mercutio ; the last of 
whom calls her " that same pale-hearted wench, that Rosaline." 

Romeo and Juliet, Act ii., s. 4. 

Page 460, " She hath forsworn to love ; and, in that vow, 

last line. Do I live dead, that live to tell it now." — Ibid., Act i., s. 1. 

Page 461, That Juliet has never beheld Romeo previously to the commence- 

last line. ment of the play, the poet has conveyed to us in the passage : — 

Jul. " What's he, that follows there, that would not dance S 
Nurse. I know not. 

Jul. Go, ask his name : — if he be married, 
My grave is like to be my wedding-bed. 
Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague ; 
The only son of your great enemy. 
Jul. My only love sprung from my only hate ! 
Too early seen unknown, and known too late !" — Ibid., Act i., s. 5. 

Page 464, See those exquisite lines of Benvolio's in reply to his friend's mother, 

line 10. Lady Montague : — 

" Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun, 

Peer'd forth the golden window of the east, 

A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad : 

Where, — underneath the grove of sycamore, 

That westward root eth from the citys side, — 

So early walking did I see your son : 

Towards him I made ; but he was 'ware of me, 

And stole into the covert of the wood." — Ibid., Act i., s. 1. 

Page 464, For Benvolio's repute in fence, see Mercutio's banter, at the ram 

line 19. mencement of the third act of the play. 

END OF PART IT. 



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